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, food tampering, and the silencing of individuals seeking help. Reader discretion is advised, particularly for those who may find these topics sensitive or triggering.

In our family, we do not have secret family recipes. In fact, almost every meal came from a box or from a place that asked if you wanted fries with it. I still have trouble eating Whoppers from Burger King. My father never cooked, so when my mother worked late hours, his solution was to go to Burger King, buy ten to twenty Whoppers at a time, and stock the fridge. Three‑day‑old Whoppers were a normal food. The dry patty and overly soggy tomato were textures that would make me gag. 

When McDonald’s began their weekday promotion of 49‑cent burgers, that became our standard breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We always had food, which was never the issue. We were savvy shoppers, going through aisles with a calculator. I was the one totaling everything to stay within a strict budget.

But cigarettes, beer, and drugs always had a bottomless wallet.

We survived on large amounts of Hamburger Helper; that was our home‑cooked meal. My mother, who also worked, would make it over the stove and make sure everyone had something that didn’t come in a wrapper.

One particular night, my father was on his usual bender. It was early evening, and his shouts could be heard throughout the house. Once again, he was accusing my mother of cheating. The reason? She had been gone that day…at work. My father had several insecurities, especially about my mother. After giving birth to four children, she had trouble losing the baby weight. My Father never let her forget this. Her solution was to purge for weight loss. That was no secret; she never did anything quietly. We would hear her vomiting after meals. Eventually, she shed the pounds to appease him.

But instead of reassuring him, it only angered him. Now he claimed she “thought she was hot shit,” and the abuse continued, accusing her of trying to look appealing to other men.

My father would berate her from across the counter, using language and topics far beyond my years. In middle school, I didn’t understand much of what he said, things sexual in nature, things cruel and illogical. He monitored the miles on the car’s odometer, gave her only five dollars for gas at a time, and timed how long it took her to get to and from work. There were never gaps in time, yet he insisted his suspicions must be true simply because he imagined them.

That day, I was sitting at the kitchen countertop. I stayed silent, watching my mother across the kitchen, her head down as she stirred the simmering pan of Hamburger Helper. I tried focusing on the pops of grease to drown out my father’s slurred shouts. I sat on a barstool at the counter, afraid to move. My Father was only inches from me, and the smell of alcohol seeping from his pores made me nauseous. I had never tasted alcohol, but I mentally connected that smell with danger.

Then it happened. I snapped out of my daze as something whizzed past my left cheek, aimed straight at my mother, and slammed into the back of her head. She yelped and dodged another item. She hurried out of the kitchen. My breaths grew shallow as fear rose into my throat. I watched her flee as he continued pointing and shouting, calling her, in his own vicious way, a “stupid bitch.”

I followed my mother into the bathroom. Her tears were obvious. The shouting continued from the other room as she examined her head. There was no blood, but a sizable bump was already forming, easily hidden by her hair. I knew, deep down, that this was a relief. Her hair would hide the mark. We saw these masked injuries as a good thing, as they were easy to hide and protected him.

I don’t recall either of us speaking. It was a silent acknowledgment: what happens in this family stays in this family.

She returned to the kitchen as quickly as possible. My father had retreated to the living room. With the snap of a pull‑tab, another beer opened. This was unusual; he rarely retreated. Normally, he would continue the attack and chase his prey. It seems he had retreated to the television without another word. 

I settled back down at the counter. My mom lightly touched the back of her head again and continued stirring, hoping the food wasn’t burned. I watched as she dropped her head; in her right hand, the wooden spatula began to stir and stop, stir and stop.

Then she broke. She let out a sob.

Shaking and crying, barely able to stand, she pulled the pan off the stove and dumped it into the sink. I was confused, why would she do that? She looked around, and I noticed her watch on the countertop. She picked it up, realizing what had happened.

My brother, “M,” came in behind me and pulled out a chair, ready for dinner.

“We will not have dinner tonight,” she said.

Still confused, I watched my mother wash the food down the disposal. We didn’t have a working dishwasher, so she piled the dishes for me to wash later.

“[Father’s Name], did you seriously put glass in our food?!” she yelled.

Then I connected it. Her watch had been smashed, and the shards had been placed into the pan. A normal person wouldn’t have caught it, but this wasn’t the first time our father had tampered with food to harm us, make us ill, or worse.

My mother recognized the signs. I didn’t. My father’s sudden calmness meant he was waiting for us to feel safe, long enough to eat, and pay the price.

I heard the recliner click, and his feet hit the floor. I felt sick.

He stumbled into the kitchen.
“Eat it!” he demanded.

I knew then there was no way around it. He was going to make us eat the glass. I looked at my brother, wide‑eyed. He knew it too.

“I threw it away already,” my mother said quietly.

The remnants had already gone through the garbage disposal. I finally took a breath as he loomed near me. She had saved us. 

Another object was hurled toward my mother; this time, she dodged it.

My Father turned and walked away, unsatisfied. Yet…also, somehow satisfied, knowing we would not eat tonight. It was a punishment we all would share equally.

To this day, I cannot eat Hamburger Helper.

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.