Dad forced Mum out the house and she never came back

My life changed forever the night my mother was thrown out of the house.    

It was Christmas Day 2003 but instead of excitement and joy, the air had been thick with tension.   

As usual, there’d been no spontaneity, no ripping of wrapping paper. Rather, my brother and I had opened our presents like robots.  

Dad always marked each present with a number, which meant each gift was to be opened in a specific order according to a corresponding piece of paper he held and, even then, it was only allowed with his nod of approval.  

Every day was like this. We lived according to his rules and his rules only.  

Every dinnertime, we all sat in assigned places that he set, and though we all tried our best to obey these rules for the sake of a quiet day, at Christmas it was especially hard.  

Dad demanded so much more from everyone, but Mum usually took the brunt of it. And so, without fail on Christmas Eve we would hear them shouting at each other.  

On Christmas Day, while Dad controlled our movements, Mum sat very still, muted and switched off knowing the best way to survive the day was to say as little as possible.  

But, an argument ignited over something minor.  

Dad wanted to go to the pub and have a break from my brother and I, but Mum was too tired to go with him so went upstairs for a lie-down. That was a mistake.  

I soon heard a crash as Dad dragged her from their bed and across the landing.  

Violence was nothing new in our home, but its familiarity didn’t make it any easier on me. I was only 11 years old – the sounds from upstairs were enough to immobilise me completely. I just stood there, my body frozen to the spot but my mind racing in panic for Mum.  

My brother, meanwhile – who is two years older than me and like Dad he showed off, bullied people, and could be violent too – seemed poised to jump to Dad’s aid.  

The conflict, now downstairs, saw Mum backed into the corner with Dad holding one arm, and my brother holding the other. They were physically preventing her from defending herself.  

Both of them had hold of her, pulling her and yet I still couldn’t move.  

Instinctively, I reached for the phone and sat on the stairs. I knew that what they were doing was wrong, but I also knew that if I called the police, I would be betraying the ultimate unwritten law of the house: Stay silent, and don’t rock the boat – ever.  

And then I caught what a glimpse of my mother, as she flew past me, her tiny frame racing through the front door into the cold Christmas night. 

She was just gone.  

Once my family had fractured like a mirror, things began to change suddenly.  

Though there was already a system of rules and punishments in place, immediately after Mum’s departure, Dad introduced even stricter rules.  

House phones were taken from the charging cradles and doors that were open – like the kitchen door that joined from the hallway to the living room – were shut. And if the living room doors were closed, you couldn’t go in.  

My brother and I were then confined to our bedrooms outside of mealtimes meaning my world grew smaller overnight.   

The house lost its colour, literally: Mum had chosen the previous brighter colours of yellow in the kitchen and pink in the living room but now Dad had everything painted over in beiges and creams.  

The place felt bare and cold and like no happiness or joy existed there – which, certainly in my case, felt true. I became introverted and depressed.  

By New Year’s that same year, the woman who would become my new stepmother moved in.  

Seeing her silver Mercedes glistening in the driveway – that I later learned Dad had bought for her – I suddenly understood the new furniture in the house and the need to redecorate. It was all for her, to make it seem that we could be this shiny new, happy family.  

Of course, we were anything but.  

Within a matter of months my brother left out of jealousy of the attention my father gave her and moved in with my grandmother. And as much as I wanted to escape too, that wasn’t an option for me.   

Nanny had always disliked me for being ‘too feminine’, and she wasn’t accepting of me being autistic. Her favourite thing to say was ‘that Aspergers don’t wash with me.’  

I was quickly moved from my bedroom to the furthest end of the house so my stepmother could have my room to store her clothes and have a makeup table. I felt like I was being locked away, erased.  

I had been grappling with my identity throughout this, and I finally came to terms with the fact that I was trans. But I couldn’t exist as myself in the house – there was already so much conflict. 

 At night I could hear her and him arguing – in one particularly bad argument, she threw a kettle of boiling water over him. But as always, she would stay, and they would argue again the next day. 

I noticed that Dad was not buying food and I was getting uncomfortably hungry – especially when he would go on holiday with my stepmother, leaving me alone at home.  

Eventually I confessed what was happening to a school teacher and they began boarding me at school with the fees charged to the state. It was hard, being an all boys school, since I hadn’t come out as trans, but I grew to appreciate the stability and predictability.  

Now at 33, I live alone, I pay my mortgage and have my own space. And I’m finally able to pursue gender reassignment without fear.  

I can choose my own clothes and eat what I want when I want without fear of retaliation. Through the years I witnessed Dad-like behaviour in landlords, bosses and even romantic partners and I would have to make a quick exit. I knew where it could lead and was not going to tolerate it.   

Despite repeated attempts to get in touch with my mum, I have never been able to re-establish proper contact with her. In fact, I’ve never reconnected with either of my parents.  

That Christmas night went a long way into shaping me as a person, and if I learned anything, it’s that the only person you can rely on is yourself and that is what I have always had to do and will continue to do because most people are unreliable, and some are even dangerous.  

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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