I didn't know how I could go back and live with him, my dad. There wasn't any getting around it, I supposed. I mean, maybe he could change. It wasn't impossible. But I thought it was kind of unlikely.

"Craig, can you help out around here?" Joey said, and I looked around at the mess. Man, can Angela make a mess. There were dishes and toys and just junk everywhere. But I kind of liked it. It was better than how neat stuff had to be at my house.

"Yeah," I said, but kind of sullenly. I didn't like to be told what to do, and it was weird with Joey being the one telling me stuff. It was like, was he trying to be my dad? It was just a weird situation. Dad, step-dad, I was kind of confused. How many dads could one person have?

They were so different, my dad and Joey. It was kind of unbelievable, really. Like, my dad was such a neat freak. You couldn't even have rings on the table from glasses, that's what the coasters were for. I didn't think Joey even had coasters. And I always had to be home at six o'clock for supper, and God help me if I wasn't. Joey was much more flexible. He was kind of like, you know, fit it to the situation. And that time that I was late because I was taking pictures? My dad was pissed. Joey wouldn't have cared, not like that.

Joey looked kind of frazzled sometimes, though. Kind of overwhelmed. He went to work and worked all day and then came home and picked up after us and made supper and paid bills and tried to do stuff with Ang because she was still so little. My dad never had that overwhelmed-ness about him. He kind of went from being calm and cool to silently pissed to flipping out. He kind of kept things together for just so long, then he'd explode. I knew Joey wouldn't. I mean, I knew. I guess sometimes it kind of worried me. I'd think that he might end up getting so angry, just like my dad did.

I liked living with Angie. I didn't want to go back with my dad in a way, because of her. Her whole life I'd hardly got to see her. She reminded me of my mom so much. I was kind of getting upset thinking about it, thinking how I'd have to go back and my dad wouldn't let me see her, just like before. It wasn't fair. That's the thing, so much about living with my dad wasn't fair. I couldn't do what I wanted, I couldn't see who I wanted to see, and he'd get so out of control, and how is this going to change? By going to a few anger management classes? That's it? I mean, he hit me for years. Years. With belts and punching me and kicking me. Sometimes it would be months between the beatings. During those months I'd start to think that maybe it was over with, that he wouldn't do that anymore. I'd hope it and then kind of start to believe it, despite how he'd be getting more upset, and all those sarcastic little comments that he'd make, and I could just see it coming. There was this tension, this sense that nothing I could do was right at all.

So I don't know. I guess the thing is I don't really want to go back. I don't believe that he can stop anymore. That's why I ran away. I was kind of at the end of things. I'm dreading going back.