I was nine when my mother got the telephone call from her brother-in-law.  Her sister was missing and had been missing for a week.  Not having ever heard of domestic violence, all I knew was that I loved my aunt, uncle and cousins very much.  Seeing my mother completely devastated following that phone conversation I tried to comfort her.  My dad was at work and my younger sister knew even less about the situation than I did. My mom was hysterical: crying, sobbing, and whispering, “He killed her, I just know it.”  Days passed, then weeks, then months.  I remember the way my grandfather quickly grew old.  I heard bits and pieces here and there.

My aunt and uncle had two girls aged 3 years and 18 months.  Apparently, my aunt was expecting another child.  Her husband had told her to get rid of it and she refused.  Halloween was approaching and my aunt had been grocery shopping.  She purchased two pumpkins along with a bag of groceries.  Her recent purchases remained in the trunk of the car when it was found parked behind a tavern a couple of weeks after her disappearance.  Detectives said, “She must have met up with and left with someone.”  More crying, my mom knew her sister would never do this.  She wouldn’t leave the girls or her new job cleaning motel rooms.  Maybe she had been kidnapped and was being held against her will? 

The arguments continued among the family.  “She’s dead.  No, no, she’s not.”   I did not understand why the girls did not stay with their dad.  He gave them away, up for adoption.  My mom’s other sister tried to adopt them, but they went to his sister.   Our side of the family was not allowed to see them at all.  It was a year of turmoil.  Time stood still, and time went by never to be regained. 

Then one day I came home from school to find the neighbor lady sitting with my mom.  It was she that had read the front-page headlines and had brought that awful picture and news to my mom.  My aunt’s body had been found and her husband confessed and was arrested.  Oh, how I wished the neighbor had never told my mom; I hated her for that.  More crying, sobbing, shaking, whispering, wondering what had gone wrong.  The hope we had held onto was gone. Trials, courts more sadness, I just wanted it all to stop. 

My aunt’s clothing and personal belongings were stored at our house, “What for,” I asked myself.  My mother instinctively replied, “Someday the girls might want some of them.” 

One day, as teenagers, they called.  I didn’t want to remember the sorrow, but this time was different.  There were hugs, smiles, and warm feelings.  It felt like closure as we went through the boxes and talked with the girls.  The youngest had no memory of her mom or the night it happened; the oldest remembered too much.  They were having a good life, but we would never be close again.  Their aunt, whom they now called, “Mom,” had biological children of her own.  She allowed my cousins to come to our house a couple of hours during the summer and at Christmas time.  It was hard for my mother to hear them refer to their aunt as “Mom.”  It was impossible for our families to be close; after all, her brother had murdered my aunt.  He died a few years later. 

As an adult, “Not again,” I thought when my neighbor and friend was reported missing by her husband.  It’s been 20 years, she’s not coming home, searching, searching, never to be found.  Part of me just doesn’t want to know what has happened to her.  Domestic violence touches so many people and changes lives forever.  The number one cause of death in Eugene is domestic violence.  Each and every time a new case emerges on TV or in the newspaper, old wounds reopen and I relive the pain.