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I was just ten years old and the whole thing seemed very black and white to me. How would I feel if we left, just me and my mom, and moved down to Florida? Would I miss my home or my stepfather too much? I did not have to think about my answer. No, I wouldn't miss my stepfather. And yes, I would love to live in Florida.

I was giddy during the drive down, excited to have my mom all to myself without my stepfather's intolerance intruding on our fun. I did not realize that my mom might need silence, that she might need counsel, however immature. Or maybe what she needed was an excited ten-year-old girl to cheer her up.

We moved into my grandparents' house and shared a bedroom and a bed. Every day that summer, I played with a girl who lived across the street from my grandparents. She happened to be my age and had a voracious imagination just like mine. When summer was gone, school started and every day was filled with novelties and excitement. We were in a portable classroom and it was air-conditioned. My teacher was a beautiful, fascinating, stern Hispanic lady. If we had to go to the bathroom during class, we had to have a classmate go with us because once a little girl had been raped in the bathroom. A music teacher came to our classroom once a week and brought a strange wire-and-chalk device that drew perfect staves on the blackboard. I took great joy in drawing, coloring and labeling plant cells and the process of photosynthesis. The school librarian formed a reading group for the fifth graders and we read The Great Gilly Hopkins, a book I still love to this day.

Did I think about my stepfather while we were apart from him? If I did, I don't remember. Even at a young age, I always knew that my real father had loved me fiercely and died when I was two. He was all the father I needed. My stepfather was a complicated man; I had spent most of my childhood trying to win his approval but unable to do it through the usual channels. Good grades didn't impress him; he refused to attend school plays, piano recitals, and awards ceremonies. Forgetting to do a chore would send him into a fury, however, and any hesitation that might indicate a lack of common sense sent him swooping in for the kill. He was a man who liked to have a good laugh, but it was almost always at the expense of someone else. I did not miss his presence.

A few months later, my mom needed to go back to Virginia to get the rest of our things and bring them down with her. She would go alone because I was in school. A week passed and I wondered why she wasn't back yet. Then two weeks were gone. We hadn't left many things up there; I could remember leaving a doll cradle with a few dolls, maybe a stack or two of drawing paper, some books. What could be taking her so long? When she came back, she brought my stepfather with her. They had talked; things were going to change. When they arrived, he and I walked around outside and talked for a long time. He told me he had missed us fiercely and for the first time seemed interested in my life. He listened to me babble about school, about the art lessons we had once a week, the excitement of being able to choose what you wanted for lunch rather than eating whatever the cafeteria ladies gave you. For the first time, he didn't tune me out when I spoke about school. He listened with interest and with a tender look on his face and let me talk until I was done. When I fell silent, he burst into tears and said he wanted us to come back. Would we come back? I had never seen him cry before. He frightened me. I cried too and told him of course, of course I would come back with him. Later on, I wished I hadn't given in so easily, but I cannot hold my ten-year-old self accountable for being taken in by false evidence.