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on it as well. Clients were getting their cars on time, vendors were getting paid on time, and
they would say, “Hey, Abie, this workshop is going so much better now that your wife has
taken over.” That didn’t help.
We lived in the workshop for close to a year, and then my mom had had enough. She was
willing to help him, but not if he was going to drink all the profits. She had always been
independent, self-sufficient, but she’d lost that part of herself at the mercy of someone else’s
failed dream. At a certain point she said, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m out of this. I’m done.”
She went out and got a job as a secretary with a real-estate developer, and somehow, between
that and borrowing against whatever equity was left in Abel’s workshop, she was able to get
us the house in Highlands North. We moved, the workshop was seized by Abel’s creditors,
and that was the end of that.
—
Growing up I suffered no shortage of my mother’s old school, Old Testament discipline. She
spared no rod and spoiled no child. With Andrew, she was different. He got spankings at first,
but they tapered off and eventually went away. When I asked her why I got beatings and
Andrew didn’t, she made a joke about it like she does with everything. “I beat you like that
because you could take it,” she said. “I can’t hit your little brother the same way because he’s
a skinny little stick. He’ll break. But you, God gave you that ass for whipping.” Even though
she was kidding, I could tell that the reason she didn’t beat Andrew was because she’d had a
genuine change of heart on the matter. It was a lesson she’d learned, oddly enough, from me.
I grew up in a world of violence, but I myself was never violent at all. Yes, I played pranks
and set fires and broke windows, but I never attacked people. I never hit anyone. I was never
angry. I just didn’t see myself that way. My mother had exposed me to a different world than
the one she grew up in. She bought me the books she never got to read. She took me to the
schools that she never got to go to. I immersed myself in those worlds and I came back
looking at the world a different way. I saw that not all families are violent. I saw the futility of
violence, the cycle that just repeats itself, the damage that’s inflicted on people that they in
turn inflict on others.
I saw, more than anything, that relationships are not sustained by violence but by love.
Love is a creative act. When you love someone you create a new world for them. My mother
did that for me, and with the progress I made and the things I learned, I came back and
created a new world and a new understanding for her. After that, she never raised her hand to
her children again. Unfortunately, by the time she stopped, Abel had started.
In all the times I received beatings from my mom, I was never scared of her. I didn’t like
it, certainly. When she said, “I hit you out of love,” I didn’t necessarily agree with her
thinking. But I understood that it was discipline and it was being done for a purpose. The first
time Abel hit me I felt something I had never felt before. I felt terror.
I was in grade six, my last year at Maryvale. We’d moved to Highlands North, and I’d
gotten in trouble at school for forging my mom’s signature on some document; there was
some activity I didn’t want to participate in, so I’d signed the release in her name to get out of
it. The school called my mom, and she asked me about it when I got home that afternoon. I
was certain she was going to punish me, but this turned out to be one of those times when