Thinking back on some of the last year before I left John and the house that we tried to make our home. My sister and her daughter lived with us for the better part of the two years we spent there. It's hard to have more than one family under one roof. Too many cooks in the kitchen. We got along great, but when it came down to logistics, it got hard after a while. I resented her for the fact that I was the stay at home, while she got to go out. She was probably envious that I got to spend quality time with her daughter while she was out earning a living.
Once I finally started to learn of all of John's doings and what was actually going on right in front of me, I felt an urgent need to get my sister and her daughter OUT of that house. I knew that me and my son (and unborn son) were in danger, and could not bear the thought that my sister and her daughter were also in danger just by living with us. It just wasn't fair to them. They weren't married, they never promised for better or worse.
I got to the point where I would find any and every reason why they should go sooner than later. I couldn't tell her the truth of why I needed them out. Not yet. I wasn't ready to deal with any of it. I was pregnant, and hormonal, and scared out of my mind every minute of every day.
I was terrified of letting the kids play outside. I no longer allowed them to play on the front porch, which was one of our favorite places to be. And when we were in the backyard, I always made a point of keeping them on the right side of the yard so that we couldn't be seen from the street or sidewalk.
I made my sister miserable to the point of moving out. We fought for a few months and had a rough patch for a while. I think she forgives me for all of that now, but I'm not sure. I just did what I felt like I had to do at the time to keep everyone safe without having to know all the ugly stuff that I was scared to deal with.
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