It's 7 pm and he is here.

He came back around 4 pm. Mom and I were in the living room.

He opened the door and walked in. He put his coat on a hanger and his car keys on the table. He looked at mom, then he looked at me.

He didn't say a single word. Then he went upstairs.

I just sat there, paralyzed. The moment he had looked at me, I had seen so much in his eyes. So much I did understand, and so much I didn't. I was overwhelmed by the flood of emotions. There was disappointment for sure, there was pain, there was anger. And I'm pretty sure there was fear. But I had also seen something else, something I couldn't grasp.

Mom looked at me, her eyes wide. She was scared, and so was I. Neither of us had ever seen him like that. After a couple of minutes, she got up from the sofa, tried to give me an encouraging look, and followed him. I heard her open and close the door to their bedroom.

The shouting started at exactly 4:10 pm.

I didn't understand every single word, but I understood enough.

"Huge disappointment", "not worth a dime", "sick", "ungrateful", "no son of mine".

Mom was obviously trying to defend me. I could hear her voice several times, beginning with "Jack, - ", but she was cut off immediately. She didn't stand a chance.

"SHUT YOUR STUPID MOUTH, ELAINE! DON'T YOU INTERRUPT ME!"

Dad has always been the kind of man who doesn't accept opinions besides his own. I can't say how often I've heard this sentence in my life. But each time I heard it, I wanted to punch him. This time was no different.

So I got up, legs trembling, walked slowly up the stairs, and towards my parents' bedroom. I hesitated for a second before I opened the door.

Then I went in.

Mom was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands covering her face. I couldn't see if she was crying.

Dad's head was bright red. His whole body was shaking furiously, his eyes threatening to come out of his skull any minute. He had always had a bad temper, but I had never, ever seen him lose control like this. He could be unfair, controlling and rude. And he was a master of mental abuse.

But for the first time in my life, I was afraid he'd physically hurt me.

He didn't. At first.

"Get out! NOW!"

But I couldn't go.

I locked eyes with him and said: "If you want to say something, say it! Right here, right now. But don't scream at mom. It's not her fault."

He just stared at me, the same look in his eyes that I had already seen before. But this time, I clearly understood the emotion I hadn't been able to grasp back then.

Disgust. He looked at me with complete and utter disgust.

I can't say I didn't see it coming. But when his fist collided with my jaw, my whole world fell apart. It wasn't a hard blow, and the pain itself wasn't that bad. It hurt, yes. I saw a couple of stars, yes. But the emotional pain was what nearly knocked me out.

I've never felt more humiliated in my life.

When I looked at him, I saw that he was crying.

I didn't cry. It was as if my mind had shut down, my body therefore unable to display any kind of reaction at all.

Then mom started sobbing.

And all I could do in that moment was run. I ran out of the room and into mine, grabbed a bag and a couple of things I thought I could use, and went downstairs and out of the house. I ran through the garden and climbed up the rope ladder to my old treehouse.

I'm still there now.

It's getting dark, and I can see the first stars coming out through the window in the ceiling.

And it's so damn cold.