Warning: This piece contains descriptive discussions of childhood trauma, including references to physical abuse, emotional and mental abuse, substance abuse, body image issues, profanity, bulimia, anorexia, and the silencing of individuals seeking help. Reader discretion is advised, particularly for those who may find these topics sensitive or triggering.

When I turned 16, I immediately filed for a work permit. Working meant less time at home, and as a bonus, I was getting paid to do so. Win-Win. I was nervous as I went from place to place in an awkwardly fitted white shirt embroidered with flowers and a black skirt. I was by no means presentable, but it was all I had that seemed remotely professional.

I visited the two main restaurants in my town on a couple of occasions, filling out applications with a blank resume. Both times I was dismissed without so much as an interview. After my second visit, I received a call inviting me to interview as a hostess. I vaguely remember sitting in a booth answering questions. I had never been coached, nor did I know what the role entailed, but somehow I nailed it. I was officially a hostess.

Over the years that followed, I learned so much. My first year was as a hostess and eventually as a waitress. I worked as many hours as my work permit allowed, and sometimes beyond its permissions. 

I was hardworking. I poured myself into that job. Between high school and the restaurant, that was my life. I didn’t spend much time with friends. I was embarrassed for anyone to see what my life was like. I had high absenteeism, the kind marred by days when I escaped my house at midnight, stayed in sketchy hotels, slept for only a few hours, and most days missed school entirely.

It was during these years that I first felt a sense of control over my circumstances. And, as most teenagers do, I craved even more autonomy. But I struggled with this new power dynamic so intensely that I found comfort in pain. I stopped eating. I punished myself daily by refusing to eat or purging when I did. The pain felt good; it was my new normal. I was obsessed with finding stability in the hurricane swirling around me.

The pounds dropped. It became the drug I craved. The more physical pain I felt, the less I cared about what was happening at home. What was there to fear if I withered away? A flower that loses its petals ceases to exist. I was slowly dying.

It became obvious I needed to make a change, especially when I collapsed mid‑shift. My skin had turned a shade of yellow I couldn’t see, but my coworkers pointed it out as they helped me into a chair. I sat there stewing in anger, my body was failing me, but wasn’t that what I wanted? I craved the control. The pain gave me something to focus on when my mind was otherwise chaotic.

But I loved my job. It was the one place where people were kind to me, told me thank you, and sometimes left me a dollar or two. So I kept working that night. Weekends were always busy, and I couldn’t afford to lose the job that kept me safe.

In the weeks that followed, even my father pierced the thin veil of safety work had provided me.

The new host, let’s call him Steve. Steve was a gentle, awkward, hardworking guy, very much “by the book.” When he spoke, most coworkers rolled their eyes, not subtly. All the waitresses were at least twenty years older than me and saw teenagers as burdens, not peers. We were equal in title only. He had blonde hair so light you could almost call it silver, and he stood maybe an inch or two taller than me at 5’10”. While I wouldn’t consider us friends, we were the only two people under the age of 30 years-old, so there was a sense of camaraderie.

Steve tried to be as friendly as possible with everyone. His quiet approachability reminded me of myself: diligent, reserved, steering clear of anything personal. Because I could drive, I sometimes offered him a ride home so he wouldn’t have to walk or deal with his overprotective mother picking him up right at the locked glass door. She would tap on the glass and wave. Steve looked down and shook his head. His mother loved him dearly. I remember smiling; he was lucky. As I continued to wipe down tables before closing.

Despite our occasional conversations, I never shared anything real about myself. I dodged anything personal, always shifting the topic elsewhere.

One Saturday night, one of our busiest shifts, the restaurant was packed. I was in the zone, slinging fries and Reuben sandwiches like my life depended on it. When the phone rang, I heard Steve answer. I grabbed a plate from the window.

“It’s a call for you,” Steve said from across the bar.

Grandpa Joe was sitting in the center of the bar, as always. He was a regular, black coffee, no matter the hour. He only ate when his wife came in with him, maybe once or twice a month. But he was there almost daily.

The bar was a long countertop with about 10 chairs lined up in a row. The chairs were a teal-green color and would swivel around, with no backs to them. Guests would sit and watch as we took plates down from the pass-through window. Refilled coffee and drinks, and stocked up on any needed supplies. It was the zone between the guests and us.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Your father.”

“Oh…” I paused, pulling down a second plate. “Please tell him I’ll call him later.”

I took the plates to table 42 and returned to refill sodas. The phone rang again.

Steve approached. “Your father is on the phone again.”

I looked at Grandpa Joe. He sipped his half‑finished coffee.

“Can you take these to table 42 for me?” I asked Steve.

He nodded, and I walked to the hostess counter. The hostess counter had enough room for 1-2 people to stand behind. It had a small cabinet with 4 shelves. Uptop was a register and a landline phone. Below it held crayons for children and other odd administrative items.

The phone sat near the register. I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“You stupid bitch. When I fucking call, you fucking answer me!”

“Okay…” My heart raced. Even miles away, the sound of his voice reminded me how close he always felt, how easily he could break me.

“You and your mother are fucking bitches. I will fucking end you.”

I sat silently as crowds moved around me, entering and exiting the restaurant. Some people looked at me, probably assuming I was just a teenager chatting on the phone.

“I have to go.” I hung up and walked away.

The phone rang again. Steve trailed behind me.

“Your dad, he won’t stop calling.”

“Tell him I’m busy. I’ll call him later.”

I tried to keep up with my tables, but my heart was pounding.

Ring!

He was drunk, I knew the signs. And worse, he wasn’t afraid to drive this way.

Ring!

Each ring echoed louder in my mind.

Steve approached again. “He’s threatening me now.”

I froze, briefly locking eyes with Grandpa Joe. I grabbed the brown‑handled coffee pot and shakily refilled his cup. He didn’t say a word, but I knew he saw the fear in me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to Steve, crossing the room and yanking the phone up. I held my breath as I placed my phone to my ear.

“…things are going to fucking change around here, you understand me?!” he screamed. His slurred rage poured through the line. He always picked someone to target when he was drunk; today, it was me.

“Nothing. You’re nothing but a fat ass,” he spat. I started to dissociate, only snapping back when the noise of the restaurant grounded me.

“Stop. Calling. Here.” I forced the words out through clenched teeth, pushing each word out with such vitriol. Then I slammed the phone down. My mind flashed with visions of me taking the phone and beating it across the countertop, smashing it to bits.

“What’s his deal?” Steve asked. Breaking my fantasy. I looked at him as I crossed the room back to the bar.

“I don’t know,” I lied, sheepishly refilling another coffee cup.

Ring!

Steve looked at the hostess counter, then at me.

“Just don’t answer.” I said.

“I can’t. We need to answer for to‑go orders.”

I knew it was no use; he was a rule-follower. Steve would continue to answer, and my Father would continue to call. Steve walked away, and I hurried back to my tables. But the ringing continued.

Slam. Ring! Slam. Ring!

Eventually, Steve caught up to me again.

“I told him if he doesn’t stop calling, we’re going to call the police,” he whispered. Grandpa Joe paused his tapping of fingertips on the counter. He took a slow sip of his coffee, and I swear gave the slightest nod of approval.

“Good,” I said, though I knew police didn’t scare my father.

Ring!

“What’s he saying to you?” I asked, desperate to keep Steve from picking up. He stayed at the bar a moment longer than comfortable for him. He knew he needed to answer the phone, but also knew I needed him to elaborate.

“He’s talking like a neighborhood drunk. Saying he’ll kill me. Kill you. Fuck this, fuck that. None of it makes sense.”

“He’s not going to stop.”

“He needs to.”

And once again, my father became my problem to fix. I started for the hostess station and took a deep breath before picking up the phone. I answered the phone cheerfully, as if everything were normal.

“You think you’re so smart… just like your mother… disgusting… stupid. You are nothing, and when you get home, be prepared to…”

“Stop calling!”

I slammed the phone down again. I was afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. I hurried to the restroom, locked myself in a stall, and collapsed to my knees. Shaking. Crying. Terrified I would lose my job over something I couldn’t control. What then? More time at home? Not an option.

So I did what had become my outlet: I forced myself to vomit. Nothing much came out, I hadn’t eaten beyond water and tiny bites of food, but I kept trying. The tears stopped. My body cooled. The pain in my esophagus felt good, peaceful, even.

I gathered myself once I felt nothing, drying my tears with toilet paper. I stumbled out. I reached into my apron and realized I had no mints, so instead I shoved a handful of liquid bathroom soap into my mouth and washed my face before turning to the restaurant. 

The phone rang for the next 2+ hours until we closed up for the night. Steve eventually stopped answering. I would catch his eye as he stood at the host station. He would jerk motion to the phone and hold up his hands like ‘fix this!’. The ringing became background noise. I was powerless to stop him.

Ring! 

I cleared another table.
Ring!

I refilled table 10’s drinks.
Ring!

I delivered another chicken-fried steak.

I kept watching the storefront window in case my Father showed up. If he did, I’d need a fast exit, not for me, but to move my coworkers to safety. My father wasn’t a small man. Between steroids and bragging about his high‑school wrestling days, he was strong, unpredictable, and violent. He never fought equals, only those smaller, easier to dominate.

After closing, the phone still rang. I went to my car and sat there for hours before finally driving home. I snuck in quietly.

He was passed out on the couch, a beer can still precariously tilted in his left hand. The phone had slipped and found rest on the floor.

My dear readers, I’m sure you’re wondering what happened when he awoke. I’m happy to report that part of the story I do not recall. Most days, he purposefully ignored me, never engaging in real conversation. When he did speak, it wasn’t dialogue, it was orders or snide comments. Waking up after a night of binge drinking meant a day of stumbling off-balance, mumbling incoherently, and seeking his next high.

Thinking about this now, I realize a child should never have to deal with adult matters. My family was anything but a family, we were dysfunctional. We lived in fear, and pain was our normal. Working at such a young age gave me a sense of self and moments of rest, which may sound counterintuitive to anyone reading this. But long restaurant hours meant money in my account and distance from whatever was happening behind closed doors.

On rare occasions, my family would come in to dine with my grandparents. Each time, I refused to serve them and begged one of the waitresses, Benni, to switch tables with me. My family brought stress with them, and this restaurant was my happy place. They would not take this away from me. And I would not yield otherwise. 

Unhealed, 

Sis

Note to Readers: This blog is a work of creative non-fiction based on the author’s memory. To protect the privacy of individuals, some names, locations, and identifying characteristics have been changed. The views expressed are solely my own. © 2026 Shadows I Survived, All Rights Reserved.