Knock, Knock… Orange You Glad I Survived?

 

I was no more than five or six years old when I experienced what I can only describe as a miracle. My mother and I had just returned from grocery shopping, and as we unloaded the bags, she handed me a bag of oranges and told me to take them into the house.

Being so young, I had never been taught how to cross the street properly. But without hesitation, I did as I was told. I stepped off the curb, completely unaware of the danger, when suddenly—BAM!

A car struck me.

The impact knocked me to the ground, and the bag of oranges scattered across the street. The driver, shaken and horrified, rushed over, frantically asking if I was okay. I imagine most mothers would have scooped up their child, crying tears of relief, grateful that their little one had survived such a terrifying moment.

But my mother wasn’t most mothers.

“She’s fine,” she said coldly, brushing it off as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience. She took me inside—not to comfort me, not to check for injuries, but to punish me.

And I don’t mean a spanking or a slap on the wrist. My mother was an abuser. She beat me after getting hit by a car, she made sure I suffered even more. As if I had any control over being hit by a car. You would think that, as the adult, she would have taken responsibility. But somehow, in my mother’s mind, it was my fault—just like most things in my life. And I’ll share more about those as they resurface.

I survived that day. Just as I had survived so many other things that should have killed me. It’s why, when I say, I should have died a thousand times, I mean it. The car didn’t end me, and neither did she.

Something—God, the universe, a force greater than myself—kept me here. And that is nothing short of a miracle.