Mom...I loved you with all my heart...all my life. Though you were in a wheelchair before I was even born, you were still a great mother. You had no control over a rage-aholic husband whom would beat and kick me into oblivion. I know, had you reported it (though that was not done back then), we all would have become wards of the state...so we endured hell.
It really hurt when I screamed for help and you turned away though. It still stabs through my soul. I still see every pixel of film in my head from that night.
My fault? How's this my fault? [Dean Vernon Wormer, 1978]