Dear Diary,

I was six years old the first time my father ever laid a hand on me. It was right after he got the news that my mother had died in a car accident. I remember eating a bowl of cereal when there were three knocks on the door. My father took a drink from his coffee as he sat down his newspaper, slowly making his way towards the door. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but after a few minutes I saw two police officers enter the home, a touch of sorrow in their eyes. My father came into the kitchen and told me to go wait in my room, that he would come to get me after he finished with the police.

I did what he asked and went to my room to play with my toys. I don't know how long I was up there for, but eventually my father came up to my room with tear-stained eyes. He picked up me and sat me on his lap on my bed.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" I remember asking as I wiped the tears from his face.

"Your mother went to be with the angels." He didn't look at me when he said that.

"When will she be back?" I questioned. At six years old, I didn't really understand what he meant by 'be with the angels'.

"She isn't ever coming back, V. She is dead! All because she had to go pick up your dress for recital!" He screamed as he threw me off his lap and onto the bed.

How was it that my mother died when I had just saw and spoke to her that morning? I cried frantically at this revelation. The tears seemed to make my father even more upset than he already was. He towered over me on the bed and yelled at me to stop crying.

"You did this to her! You have no reason to be crying!" And then it happened. He slapped me.

Hard.

Right across my face.

I was so shocked that I immediately stopped crying and just looked at him. All I remember thinking is why?

Why is my mother dead?

Why does my dad blame me?

Why did he hit me?