As far back as I can remember, I noticed all the scars on my Mom’s body. Curiously, I would ask, “What is that from?” She would respond, “Grown up stuff. An accident.”
As I aged, they were just part of her body, and I stopped asking. We had photos of me visiting her in the hospital as a child. “It must have have been a really bad accident.” I thought. In my teen years, I found out the truth. Right after my first birthday, my Mom was fed up with the physical abuse she was enduring from my father. She bought a gun, thinking it would keep her safe. It didn’t. He grabbed the shotgun from her and shot her multiple times. She nearly died, and I went to live with my Grandma.
Finding out the truth formed my views on guns. They do not keep you safe. And bringing one into the home puts women at a higher risk. Her scars are my scars.