Kids who had a horrible childhood, what happened?

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My dad left when I was seven, and Mom started drinking heavily to cope. That's when the real nightmare began. She'd bring home different men every week, and I learned to hide in my closet when their voices got loud.

One night, I heard Mom screaming. I crept downstairs and saw her boyfriend hitting. When I tried to help, he shoved me so hard I hit the wall. Mom just stood there, choosing him over me like she always did.

School became my escape, but even there I was the weird kid with scars and dirty clothes. Teachers would ask questions, but I'd lie because Mom said they'd take me away to somewhere worse.

The worst part? I had a college fund Dad left before he disappeared—fifteen thousand dollars Mom was supposed to keep safe. I found out she'd been draining it to buy alcohol and keep her boyfriends happy. By my fifteenth birthday, every penny was gone.

When I turned sixteen, Mom's latest boyfriend moved in permanently. He made it clear I wasn't welcome, eating my food, sleeping in my bed when I wasn't home, treating me like an intruder in my own house. Then I discovered he was stealing my part-time job paychecks from the mail, forging my signature to cash them.

The breaking point came on my seventeenth birthday. I came home to find all my belongings in trash bags on the porch. Mom stood in the doorway, avoiding my eyes. "Jake needs the space for his workshop," she said. "You're old enough to figure it out."

What she didn't know was that I'd been secretly recording their conversations for months, documenting the theft and abuise. I had evidence of everything.

I grabbed those bags and walked to the library, where I spent the night researching emancipation laws. Within three months, I had a job, a tiny apartment, and legal independence. I finished high school while working nights at a diner, using my recordings to recover some of the stolen money through small claims court.

Mom never called. Not once.

Ten years later, I became a social worker specializing in child protection. Last month, I got a case file that made my blood run cold—a seven-year-old boy with scars, living with his alcoholic mother and her abuisive boyfriend.

When I knocked on that door, Mom answered. She looked twenty years older, hollow-eyed and broken. Behind her, I could see the same chaos I remembered—empty bottles, unwashed dishes, the smell of desperation.

She recognized me immediately. "Please," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Don't take him. He's all I have left."

I looked past her at the little boy hiding behind the couch, and saw myself at seven years old. Then I looked back at the woman who chose everyone else over her own child.

"You had me," I said quietly, pulling out my badge. "And you threw me away like garbage."

The boy is safe now, living with a foster family who actually wants him. Mom lost custody permanently.