There would be times as a child when my shins felt this unimaginable sting straight to the bone. One night, in particular, I was lying on the top bunk of the bunk bed I shared with my sister. I should've been sleeping but was woken up in the middle of the night from this literal aching. I couldn't have been more than seven, without a doubt younger than ten but older than five. During this time in my life, my mom dated a guy she wanted my siblings and me to view in a fatherly light but never pushed or encouraged us to call him "Dad." That would come years later and with a different man.

The man Mom was seeing was named Steve. He was a drunk who owned a house in Hammond, IN. It no longer exists; it was demolished years after Steve died because the bank ended up taking the lead on what was (per Mom) a nasty court battle between Steve's daughter and my mother over who got the house. I guess Steve didn't leave a will, surprising no one. I'm not sure what the allure to him was for her. If I shine the most critically honest light onto her behaviors and how mine have reflected hers but with their own tone, I can say this much: she was using him. Sure, I believe she loved him or managed to love him eventually. Initially, Mom saw Steve as a safe(r) option than where she was at then. Then, through stories, accusations, and confessions from both parents, my father was physically abusive to Mom. There's much more to his account than him beating on Mom, but that's why she ran right into Steve's arms. One day I hope to ask her how she and Steve met, but I'm not speaking to her now. It's been a few months since I last messaged her. I don't regret the things I said, but I feel poorly about setting boundaries with her. Respecting them has been difficult.

In this memory of my aching shins, I remember hearing music and laughter in the house's living room. Mom and Steve had friends over. There was so much noise Mom couldn't hear me call out to her from my bed, and I began to weep from the pain. My baby sister lay sleeping in the twin bed to the right of my older sister and I's bunkbed. Tiffany could hear my crying and climbed up onto my bed to provide comfort. I think she was trying to avoid Taeya waking up, which was brilliant for a nine-year-old to think about. Tiff has always been so bright, always thinking five steps ahead. She knew that if Taeya woke up and started crying, there was a good chance Mom would be upset at having to deal with us. She had moments of meanness, where her having to mother her children was an inconvenience. I think it's where constantly feeling burdensome to others stems from.

"My legs hurt so bad," I cry to my sister, who moves towards the end of the bed to my feet.

"Where on your legs?" she asks. Then, running my small hands over my bony legs, she meets mine and rubs them with her slightly larger hands. Almost immediately, I could feel the pain ease up.

"I think it's growing pains," Tiffany said to me as my tears stopped and began to dry on my cheeks. They tasted like salt. Sometimes, even as an adult, when I cry, I'll taste a tear or two. There's something about getting something out of everything, even pain.

I fell asleep as she eased the hurt in both my heart and my limbs. While I still wince when thinking about the emptiness Mom gave me in her affection for most of my childhood, I am grateful for the women in my life that tended to me. Even into adulthood. It is my turn to tend to myself. I rub my legs as I fall asleep most nights lately. It soothes me even still.