Three Weeks, a Lie

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My brothers Al, Bob, and I witnessed our mom carried and dragged past us by men in white as we huddled against our living room wall. Dad arranged for Mom to be confined to a mental facility. He didn’t bother considering to soften our confusion by explaining Mom was sick or where she was being taken. Shortly afterward, Dad had us transferred to a special school for three weeks. Actually, we were transferred to an orphanage. Again, he didn’t bother preparing us for what was ahead of us; the least of which was the absence of family influences. Our mom endured eleven years in a mental facility. We endured eight and a half years in an orphanage. As if that wasn’t enough, Dad followed up a few years later telling us that Mom was gone. A lie. What would prompt any father, for no known reason, to elect to separate a family without explanation for his actions? Years of silence from him and family members failed to provide reasons other than self-serving on his part. The years separating Mom from us took its toll on the four of us. Separation, isolation, guilt, anger, loneliness, and adjustment were new experiences for the four of us to deal with.