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past without digging into old wounds. I spent most of my life up until I had Jack scraping off the scabs of my childhood with my fingernails until the hole got so deep it reached my bones. Those family scars never disappear entirely, but they can heal over time until they are tiny, nearly invisible lines.
    Still, once in a while, even as adults, the thin lines glow a bright red and sometimes start to itch and bleed. The good news now is that we talk . . . and even laugh about the wounds that caused them.
    When we were kids, we had an unspoken pact never to talk about what went on in our home. Or maybe we were afraid even then by how damaged we all were, and believed that if we started talking about it or crying about it, we’d never be able to stop. Maybe we thought silence was the only way to survive.
    On the outside, we were the perfect family. The Bellos were the beautiful young couple with their four well-behaved, beautiful children, attending church every Sunday. But the truth was that many nights before church we were routinely awakened by our drunken father, closely followed by our crying mother, who was trying to soothe him. Dad would scream at us, “GO DOWNSTAIRS AND CLEAN THE KITCHEN! YOU LEFT IT A MESS FOR YOUR MOTHER.” Terrified, we’d all scramble down the stairs to be berated and threatened by the terrifying drill sergeant for two hours. Back to sleep at five, up at seven for church, perfect ! We were very skilled at hiding our pain, our embarrassment, and our shame.
    My father, Joseph Patrick Bello Jr., was a big, strapping Italian man, who lived, breathed, danced, loved, and worked in his body. He was crushed by a steel beam on a construction site when he was 30. He broke his back and in one second all of his dreams blew up in smoke. He was now trapped in a body that had betrayed him. Doctors gave him painkillers like candy. He didn’t know he had options, or ways to find help. Instead, he thought he could handle his pain. He just didn’t have the tools. My mother would try to give him the tools over the years, to “nurse him back to health.” In his heart, I think he wanted to be healthy again. Aren’t we all looking for someone to bandage our wounds and tell us we’re okay and love us no matter what? My father was no different. But no one could give him the self-acceptance he was looking for. Not even my mom.
    My mom, Kathy, was Polish, a blue-eyed, blond-haired beauty who at 15 resembled Marilyn Monroe. Looks are where that comparison stops. Kathy was known as a saint, an angel, who we always joke was so religious that she not only went to church every day, but got on her hands and knees to clean the marble floor of the vestibule while she was there. With a toothbrush. She did it all with a smile, prayerfully and joyfully.
    Enter Joe Bello. He looked like Elvis, all black slicked-back hair, wild dark eyes, and slim strong body. His nickname was “Animal.” He earned the name on the football field when he reached inside the rival quarterback’s face mask and accidently tore his lip off up to his nose.
    He fell in love with her right away. She fell in love with the bad boy. They were perfect for each other.
    My mom said that after the “animal” incident, Joe Bello came to her crying. “Poor son of a bitch,” he said. “What the hell did I do? Yeah, he’s Irish, but he’s a good guy. Why’d I do that?” And in this vulnerable moment my dad told my mom the story of what happened when he was seven years old. After Dad snuck out to ride Cousin Rusty’s horse without asking, his father beat him with a belt and then tied him to a pole in the basement for the entire night as rats scurried over his ankles. He cried out all night but no one came to save him. After that evening he never really cried again.
    It wasn’t just that time but many that he was beaten. He was routinely told he was “good for