I wonder if Julie felt that way when she started her blog

One comment. Ouch. But it is soothing my soul.
One of the coolest things my mom and I did was climb the fire stairs that took us to the roof of the apartment. We even took pictures of each other. We were free. She was free. And for ever and ever the movie theater sign flashed the playing of Ben Hur. We figured it must be pretty good.
We were on top of the world.
And then inside presents were sent. Dutch books for me. I would read the latest big hit from Holland to my mother. No matter what I did, my mother loved it. Besides the yellow canary, who sang to its heart delight, all my mother had was me. I understand now how significant I was to her. No wonder she was always full of cheer when I came home from school. The praise was endless.
On Wednesday nights Gillette had its weekly boxing matches. It was even at a weird hour, I think, 7:45. My dad was addicted. We wanted no part of it. We had to be silent so my dad would not miss the blistering sound of a punch, I guess.
So among the usual verbal attacks my dad would frighten her. I would make a comment at 8 ," Oh, it is the fight of the week." , referring to the weekly fights on TV.
One day my dad walked out. My mother and I were mortified. Not because he left, but what would we do. My mom crying copiously, I left the apartment and went running down Arguello Blvd looking for my father. I didn't and went home to console my mom, promising her that he would come back. He did, three hours later. The chill in the apartment could not be warmed be the heater.