Behind the Flowers

7 min readJul 19, 2022

She always knew that there was something off about her family.

When she was a teenager, she remembers furtively searching for old family photos. She was looking for a photo of her mother pregnant with her.

She had to wait until they were all out of the house, but still she felt like she was doing something she shouldn’t. There was no way she wanted to get caught in the act. Like she was committing a crime.

A thought had occurred to her, perhaps she was adopted.

Ahh, finally an explanation. She felt a moment of relief.

That would account for why she felt that she didn’t fit in with the rest of the family. It seemed to be the three of them and then…. her. She was like an after-thought.

The three of them, comfy together, almost conspiring, together in the corner. That’s what it felt like.

Not too dissimilar to what it felt like when she fell out with her best friend.

Her best friend went off with someone else, leaving her on her own. Those break times were the longest, as she tried not to cry, trying to find someone to be with. Hot tears, escaping, despite all she did to hold them back.

She felt the hurt deeply. It would pain her to her very core.

If she was adopted, then perhaps there was somewhere where she fitted in?

Somewhere where she was loved and accepted for who she was?

When she didn’t find any photos of her mother pregnant, she was disappointed. But not as disappointed as she thought, because there was still a chance she was adopted.

She would have to wait until they told her….. although that day never came.

In the meantime, was like a little spark of hope for her, a hope for something better.

There were good times, although these were few and far between.

These times were somewhat tainted, because she never knew when her father would swiftly turn and the darkness would descend on the house again.

His moods would permeate everything and everyone. It wouldn’t matter where you were in the house, you knew.

The arrival of his car, especially after a long stay away, was something she was simultaneously terrified and excited about.

If he was in a good mood, he would come home bearing gifts, big hugs and smiles. The whole house would light up.

In a bad mood, she was lucky if she got a word from him. He would turn from her, as she went to hug him. It was like hugging a plank. But she still had to hug him.

Somehow, even though she might not have seen him for a long time, she felt that his bad mood was her fault.

With her father’s moods, came her mother’s.

In some ways these were worse, although much more subtle. It was nit-picking at her, complaining at whatever she did, brushing her hair viciously, doing anything she wanted begrudgingly.

She always felt like a huge burden, for everything her mother had to do for her.

Whenever she wanted something, if she was brave enough to ask, she was told that money didn’t grow on trees.

At times it felt like her mother’s response was always going to be no.

The answer’s no, what’s the question?

She remembered times when she was sad about the death of a pet or a family member.

She was caught in a trap. If she cried about it in front of her mother, she was ignored or told that her mother had it much worse. If she didn’t cry, she was a cold little bitch.

Her father too, viewed crying as a manipulation ploy. It was never because someone was sad, it was to get their own way.

It didn’t take her long to realise that crying was never going to get her the hug or love that she wanted so badly.

For years she suffered from eczema, red and sore. They never knew what caused it. For a brief moment, when her mother was putting on the cream, she felt her mother cared. Perhaps that why she suffered from it.

Even her eczema was a chance for her mother to be a martyr. It was her fault her daughter got it, she kept the house too clean. Just a chance to show off what a clean house she had, the priority of her life.

It didn’t matter what was going on in the family. Of little importance, how cold and nasty her husband was to her daughter. Or how difficult it was to withstand his moods, all that mattered was how the house looked.

On the outside, a neat house with beautiful flowering hanging baskets. A shiny new car in the drive and a dog in the well-kept garden. The perfectly lovely family home.

Behind those flowers, a house filled with fear.

She knew that it wasn’t just her that felt that fear. It saturated everywhere, her brother and mother too.

His moods dictated everything in that house.

His favourite expression was that he wasn’t master of his own house.

This was confusing because all she saw was that he was the master of the house, and everyone and everything in it. They were all slaves to his moods.

On occasions when she felt the injustice of how her father treated her, she would pluck up the courage to speak to her mother about it.

He’s stressed.

He’s very busy with work.

I’m worried about his mental health.

These were her standard replies, often repeated. Nothing ever changed.

You’ve just got to take it, it’s the way he is.

She doubted that her mother ever even mentioned it to her father. Her mother was scared of him, just like everyone else was.

Her fear of her husband was greater than her desire to protect her daughter.

Everyone was caught up in their own battle to survive in that house.

It often meant that she was pitched against her brother, or her mother in that fight. And they certainly fought dirty. But still it felt like her mother and brother united against her in their fight. She was on her own.

Often her mother would report to her father on his return of some great crime she’d committed during the day.

Or her brother would go running to their mother, complaining of something she’d done.

Her mother seemed to relish it when her brother told on her.

With a sneer of satisfaction on her face, she spit out:

Wait ’til your father gets home.

It was the constant threat, and, boy, it worked every time.

Her fear of her father, not just of his moods, but of being the one to cause it ruled her childhood life.

Her mother would list off her transgressions to him, almost as soon as he was through the door. It seemed to bring her glee.

There was something like glee with him too.

As he turned to her, a looming giant of a man, with the power of life and death in his hands, her stomach would drop.

Sometimes if she knew she’d really done something wrong, those moments of him turning time would go slow. Even time prolonged her torture.

What was he going to do?

He wasn’t a man of open anger.

No, his rage was the silent treatment, cold body language, it was as if she ceased to exist to him.

That would scare her more than any words he could ever use.

She daren’t speak to him not unless she really had to. His silence better than the cold way he looked at her, or the way his body would flinch as if her very presence repulsed him.

Sometimes her mother would ask her to go find him with a message. She hated doing that, she had to or else she’d be in trouble with her mother.

It was another chance for him to ignore her, let her see that she didn’t exist to him.

It hurt, with a pain that shot to her very soul.

But the next moment, he could be calling her Beauty, or calling her for a hug.

Those times, she loved because even for a brief moment she felt cherished. She knew it would be short-lived.

Her mother, watching, would sneer and she could almost see the cogs whirling as her mother schemed. Her mother hated it when she got any love from her father. She would make sure that it didn’t last.

Sometimes her transgressions were made up or exaggerated. A sigh of exasperation that escaped her, without her meaning it, became blown into some sort of crime.

It seemed that her mother was only really happy, or satisfied, when she was in trouble with her father.

If he was targeting her, then her mother and brother were safe.

They both used her, used her to protect themselves.

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