For years I thought that my mother was evil. To the outside world, we appeared to be a normal family. My father worked two jobs, we usually went to Mass on Sunday and my parents seemingly had an ideal marriage. But inside the house, violence raged almost daily. Over the years, my parents’ drinking and abuse gradually increased like a slowly metastasizing cancer. I expected violence from my father — after all, his whole family was like that. His mindless barbarism wasn’t particularly personal, and you could learn to avoid it if you were a clever child. But my mother’s rampages had a particular cruelty to them. She seemed to take particular delight in tormenting her chil
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