It was about 10 p.m. Wednesday. I was taking my nightly walk through my quiet suburban neighborhood when I realized that something seemed wrong at a house just ahead.
I couldn’t tell what was going on, but I heard the low murmur of voices that didn’t sound happy. There was a car that seemed to be about half packed. The trunk and the doors were open. It was dark, so I couldn’t see much, but I knew there were people in the driveway.
I heard the low sound of a child sobbing. Then I heard a man’s voice. He wasn’t shouting or angry, but the voice was firm.
“I don’t want Mommy to leave, Amber, but that’s her choice.”
The soft, muffled sobbing continued. Then I was far enough past that I couldn’t hear what else might have been said.
And with that, I was a child again — just for a few minutes — reliving similar scenes from my own dysfunctional family’s past. Even though it’s been decades since I experienced those things, I could feel the feelings as if they were fresh. Hurt. Fear. Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Mostly fear that I was being abandoned, although the child-size version of me didn’t have had the words to call it that.

Are we destined to become our parents? Or can we be different?
I wasn’t allowed to express need, so I’ve spent life traveling alone
Against all rational choice of will, an old hunger in my heart returns
It’s odd how ‘choice’ can mean ‘no choice’ with the state involved
FRIDAY FUNNIES
Obama’s new ‘AttackWatch.com’ website smells like political fear
AUDIO: Drama of ‘family of origin’ seems to follow us for a lifetime