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This is my story:

It's also my son's story; and my mother's too, my brothers', my sister's and my daughter's.

My children grew up with a lot of fighting-like tons. My husband and I argued ALOT-sometimes to a point beyond simple disagreement of words-to a place of war, of hate, of contempt. Nashing and screaming, coercing and battling with fists or hands or force. For our freedom, our pride, beliefs, our righteousness, our right to our children. Too often blinded, not realizing how childish we were. My son was a witness. Most recently over a few words, well actually over one single letter. Really. We could fight over anything.