Tearing us down

As my mother describes it, my step-father came to our apartment in his work truck and said, "Move in with me." Just like that. Matter of fact. He didn't profess his love. He didn't ask her if she would care to move in with him. He just told her. It was a command. Just do it. My mother describes that she consented because she thought, "We will have a family again." We already were a family. And while we struggled financially, my mother did her best without child support payments or government assistance. We ate fish sticks and drank powdered milk, but we had what was important. We had one another and a three-legged dog. Mom had a one prior boyfriend and an additional guy for a few dates. Teddy was her steady and I loved Teddy. He had kind brown eyes and soft wavy brown hair to match. His voice was soothing and he was hard working. He was smitten with my mother. He loved us. And I felt loved by him. But Ron, my step-father became another story. My immediate dislike for him was as a premonition for what was to become. That day we moved out of the apartment and arrived at his rented home changed my course forever. Ron was mastering Machiavellian concepts. He was manipulative and ruthless. Our furniture didn't go to his home, it went to his friend's house. He gave it away. My mother lost her car. A 1969 Pontiac Grand Am. Silver with Black Leather Interior. My mom takes pride in her vehicles. She loved that car. It was an exciting day for her when she earned that car. He gave it to his alcoholic, drug addicted sister. When Arlene pulled up to the house for a visit, my mother was devastated at what had become her prized possession. Filthy, dented, and sounding rough, her voice wept at her loss. My mother's doll collection was ruined from a leaky garage roof; purposely, I'm sure. He forced her to quit her job as a telephone operator. Six months after we moved in with him, he conned her out of the six-thousand dollars worth of CDs she had saved from the sale of our family home. He paid his bills with it. He had me go through all of my toys to eliminate most of them. "If there is something here that doesn't belong here, I'm going to throw all of them away. Choose wisely." My mother realized she had made a mistake. But by that time, it was too late. We had nothing. No money. No car. No personal possessions. And lastly, he took my father away from me. I remember it like yesterday. I was sitting in the living room, making a list for Santa. Sitting on the bland brown plaid couch wearing his white t-shirt and denim cut-offs, he demanded of the three of us, "You are going to call your father and tell him that you don't want to see him anymore." Bill got on the phone first and did as he was told. He then handed the phone to me. "Daddy, I'm making my Christmas list. When am I going to see you again?" "I want to see you..." his voice trailed as the phone was torn from my hand. Sam picked up the receiver next and did as he was told. I begged to talk to my daddy. Eighteen years would pass before I saw him again.