Part of my Novel (PUZZLEMENT)

PUZZLEMENT
I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.
~ Martin Luther King Jr.

Birthdays were really special to me. They meant that a person was one year older and I couldn’t wait to grow up. Today was my fifth birthday. Five years old. It seemed like such a big number.
Sun was shining through the windows of my bedroom, a hopeful indicator of a good day to come. I kicked the covers toward the end of my bed; for once I didn’t mind getting up. I padded over to the door and peeked into JJamie’s room to see if she was awake yet. She wasn’t. I poked her hard in the arm.
"It’s my birthday!"
"Shut up. Go back to sleep." She rolled over.
I stared at her for a moment, debating whether to poke her again, but decided against it. It was annoying she didn’t seem to care it was my birthday.
The old wooden clock downstairs told me that it was 10:00 a.m. It was late and no one was yet up. Other than the snoring I could hear from Mom’s bedroom, the rest of the house was quiet.
A quick glance outside revealed Dad’s truck was gone. I felt a stab of disappointment. His trips to the woods meant he wouldn’t be home until late, and he hadn’t asked me to go with him.
I sat on the couch and stared at a blank television. Turning it on would mean trouble. It seemed as though everyone had forgotten my birthday. No one talked about it or brought it up. It was the only time of the year I got a present.
I wracked my brain to try and remember when the last time they had actually spoken about my birthday. As I sat on the couch, I recalled the terrible events that had led up to today.
It started with an argument, like it always did. Like always, it ended with Mom screaming, Dad yelling, and then the all too familiar sound of the screen door slamming closed.
Normally, the subjects of their arguments were a mystery to me, some sort of grown-up predicament I hoped would be resolved with as little violence as possible. But this time, as I covered my head with my pillow, I knew it was my fault they were arguing. They were arguing about me.
It had also started earlier that day, during one of our usual trips to the store and my brothers had come along. I always hated it when they came along, because they always made me do things I didn’t want to do.
I found myself in the toy isle, a small collection of books, crayons, markers, and games. Someone grabbed my hand roughly, and I looked up with a start. It was Jay, gripping me so that I couldn’t let go.
"Come here." He whispered, pulling me toward the candy isle.
He picked up a snickers bar and some gum. "Put these in your pockets." He said.
"No."
He punched me twice on my arm. "Put these in your pockets or when you get home we will hurt you." He shoved the candy into my hands.
"Hurry up! Put it in your pockets."
I tried to put the candy back on the shelves, but this time, he pinched my arm, hard.
"Do it." He hissed.
Trembling, I put the candy in my pockets. I didn’t know what to do. Maybe when he turned around, I could put it back on the shelves.
Just then, Dad came up with a cart of groceries. "Let’s get going. Go get your brother."
Jay disappeared around the corner. I knew that I only had a few moments alone. I was trembling and afraid. And I couldn’t bring myself to put the candy back.
"Time to go!" Jay announced, grabbing my arm again.
I could barely breathe and my heart was racing. It felt like it was suddenly a million degrees in the store. It seemed to take forever for Dad to go through the line and the telephone at the checkstand kept ringing.
When the clerk finally picked up the phone, she focused her eyes on me. I tried to hide behind Dad, but then a larger clerk came and spoke briefly to the clerk. Then, he said something that I didn’t hear. Dad looked down at me, surprised.
The next thing I know, my pockets were emptied and the stolen candy revealed. His look of disappointment overwhelmed me, and I began to cry. I glanced quickly around, looking for my brothers, but they were nowhere to be found.
We paid for the other items, and rode home in silence. When we arrived at the house, Dad stopped the truck, but didn’t get out. We sat there for a moment before he said, "We aren’t going to tell this to your mother. She doesn’t need to know. Understand?" He looked at my brothers expectantly.
It was only later that I learned that they had said something anyway. Mom was angrier than I had seen her in a long time. They fought and after Dad’s usual disappearance, she came for me. She took me out onto the porch, made me pick out a piece of splintered cedar from the wood box, and then hit me over and over again. I tried to tell her the truth, but it didn’t seem to be the truth she wanted to hear.
The one thing Mom always demanded to know when she hit me was why. That seemed to be the only answer I didn’t know.
Finally, out of desperation and pain, I told her that I was hungry; that was the reason I had stolen the candy. At one point, I put my hand behind my back in order to prevent her from hitting me any longer, and she just kept hitting me anyway, giving my arm a few painful whacks and then hitting me harder for trying to defend myself.
The whole time, she said things like, "This is hurting me more than it’s hurting you." But I didn’t understand how that could possibly be true; I was the one who would wake up in the morning unable to move.
When I was safely in my room, unable to sleep from the pain, I reflected on the events of the day. All I could think was that Dad wasn’t there to protect me. He wasn’t there when I needed him the most.
I felt hopeless and lost, and cried myself to sleep.
It seemed that after my worst beatings, Dad always found a way to take me to the store. Another excuse to get out of the house, for both of us.
"I’m going to take Dawn to the store." He announced one morning.
"She doesn’t deserve to go."
"It’s almost her birthday."
"Do you deserve to go to the store?" she looked at me.
I didn’t know what to say. If it appeared for even a moment that I actually wanted to go to the store, she would find a reason to not let me go.
"No." I replied sullenly, pretending I didn’t care one way or the other. But I did care; I couldn’t wait to get out.
"Take the little beast with you." She sneered. "But she doesn’t deserve to have a birthday."
When we were safely in the truck, it refused to start as always. I was anxious to go before she changed her mind. The truck responded to the turn of the ignition with coughs and sputters. After a few more tries and some cursing from Dad, the Ford roared to life.
It was only when we were out of sight I began to relax.
"Ah, that woman!" Dad understood me; it was as if he was acknowledging feelings I didn’t have to explain.
We got to the store, and I found myself terrified to go in. I grabbed Dad’s hand and looked down at the floor. It felt like everyone was staring at me and my face stayed red the whole time. The clerks would certainly always remember me as the girl who stole from them and I couldn’t bring myself to look at them as we passed.
I stayed as close to Dad during the whole trip as I could, not wanting to leave his side. But when we got to the meat section, I knew it was annoying him.
"Honey, go play." He told me.
Reluctantly, I walked slowly down the isle toward the place I loved so much. There were the same old boring coloring books-Transformers, Superman and Friends, Barbie. But as I moved them aside, a small box caught my eye. It was a picture of a giant chocolate chip cookie with a bite taken out. I picked it up, and realized in excitement that it was a puzzle! It was perfect.
Smiling, I raced to find Dad. As always, his answer was the same. "Okay angel. I don’t have the money to get it today, but if it’s still here the next time, I’ll get it for you, okay?"
"But Dad, it will be gone!" I had never seen such a marvelous thing at the store before. It was better than a coloring book or stickers. I knew that if we didn’t get it right then, it wasn’t going to be there when we got back. But Dad refused, and I put it back on the shelf, hiding it under the coloring books.
The day passed, as it always did. I was in trouble, so play time was not allowed. The next few days, I spent countless time thinking about that cookie puzzle and how much fun it would be to put it together.
A few days later we returned to the store, and I couldn’t wait to get there. All I kept talking about was the cookie puzzle. Dad seemed surprised that I still wanted it. "If it’s still there, you can have it." He chuckled, reminding me that someone else might have bought it in our absence during the week.
I raced to my favorite isle, dug through the pile of coloring books, and discovered that my puzzle, the thing I had waited for, was gone.
Determined, I kept looking-digging through the books. Checking twice. Three times. Maybe it was somewhere else in the isle. I checked the rest of the home goods-the sewing section, the light bulbs, the cleaning supplies. Where else could it possibly be? I walked up and down the isles, scanning near the bottom shelves. Maybe someone had picked it up only to set it down again. It wasn’t long before I found my dad.
"I can’t find it." I whined.
"You can’t always get what you want," was his nonchalant reply. That was it? Here I had waited a whole week only to come back and discover it gone? It was more than I could bear. Mustering up my courage, I approached one of the store clerks. He seemed about the same age as my dad, only taller and much larger in the stomach. "Yes?" he looked down at me uncertainly, as if he didn’t know how to deal with small children.
"There’s a puzzle …" I started. But I realized I hadn’t known what to say and suddenly I was embarrassed.
"A puzzle?" A strange look spread across his face. I was bothering him.
"I was looking for this puzzle I saw here before." I managed.
"Really?" he wiped his hands on his apron. "We don’t usually sell puzzles, I don’t think. But I’ll help you look for it, okay?"
I nodded, taking the lead down the aisle to where the toys were. He claimed the store didn’t sell puzzles, but clearly it did because I had seen that puzzle. Perhaps he didn’t even know where the toy aisle was let alone what to find there. I doubted he had any kids.
"See? No puzzles here." Was his brisk reply, not even having taken more than a minute to help me look. He didn’t even bother to ask anyone else. "Okay." I took one last look through the shelves and then gave up. Clearly, it wasn’t there. Someone else probably had seen how neat it was and had taken it home. I missed out, again. I feeling of disappointment surged through me and nothing else I looked at seemed to even come close to the value of that puzzle.
I found my dad again. When he encouraged me to go play, I just remained by his side, staying silent.
"You really wanted that puzzle, didn’t you?" he said as we left the store.
"Yeah."
Our ride home was spent in silence. I was thankful, for it was one of the few times when silence was welcome. As we drove, I reflected on the fact that despite the few toys I had, somehow that puzzle was the only thing I wanted.
The only consolation seemed to be that my fifth birthday was coming up and I was really excited about it because it was a chance to get another toy if I was really lucky. It wasn’t so much the idea of getting something that excited me, it was the idea of the surprise. Something nice they had to do just for me. It was my birthday. The only day out of the year it got to be all about me.
It seemed as though the days couldn’t pass quickly enough. I was such a good girl. I did more chores in the next few days than ever before; I even volunteered for extra projects-just for a chance to get a birthday present. My mind continually focused on Mom’s words that I didn’t deserve one. If only she knew who I really was, would she say that about me? Would she call me undeserving? Would she call me names then? If she knew that I wasn’t the one who wanted to steal anything, who even thought of such things. Would she even care to know it was the idea of her precious, favorite son?
With all the extra chores, the days flew by. I didn’t have much extra time to beg the boys to play with me anymore. So when they took off on their usual adventures, I did not attempt to go with them or try to figure out where they had gone.
One morning, while our parents were asleep, Jamie and I were peeling potatoes for breakfast. Chris started searching through the cupboards, excited.
"What are you doing?" Jamie asked him.
"Looking for something."
"Duh. What are you looking for?"
"More candles." Was his only reply.
"For what?" Jamie’s hands were on her hips now, their usual resting place.
"For what?" Chris mocked her voice.
"You’re acting more and more like Jay every day."
"Shut up." He kept banging the cupboards closed loudly.
"You shut up!" she hissed. "You’re going to wake up Mom. I’ll tell you where the candles are if you tell me why you want them."
With that, he stopped. "It’s actually really cool." He said proudly. "If I show you what we’re doing, you have to promise not to tell anyone!"
Jamie shrugged, "Who am I going to tell?"
"Her." He pointed to me.
The whole time they had been talking, I had been standing there quietly, potato in one hand, peeler in the other, listening to their conversation. Even though I knew they hated it when I overheard their conversations, my curiosity had gotten the better of me, as it often did.
"She won’t tell anyone."
"Yes, she’ll go running to Daddy, and then we’ll all get into trouble." He emphasized the word Daddy as if to remind me that my dad was not his father, but rather his step-father, a person they detested.
"I will not!" I protested. "I want to know what’s going on!"
"Shhhh!" they spoke in unison.
"She won’t tell." Jamie looked back at him.
He looked at me. "You have to promise you won’t tell anyone."
"I won’t tell. I promise." I was anxious to know what the secret was. I would have promised just about anything to find out what they were up to.
"You better not." He grinned.
Jamie got a chair and stood on top of it, opening cupboards far above my head. She pulled out several large candles and matches. She handed me some to carry, as if to make me know that I was definitely in on whatever they were doing.
I could tell from the way she looked at him curiously, that she was not sure what they were up to either.
We headed silently out the front door and Chris led us back toward the barn. The barn was an older wooden building in the back of the house that housed chickens, goats, and rabbits as well as their feed, hay, and miscellaneous other items including the lawn mower and all of Dad’s woodcutting tools.
Puzzled, both Jamie and I followed him quickly to the barn, almost breaking into a run to catch up.
We opened the door to the barn as quietly as we could to avoid the loud crack it often made as it swung closed. Rays of sunlight peeked into the barn from the random places where the wood was inconsistent or not firmly fit together. But it still took my eyes time to adjust.
"What are we doing here?" Jamie asked Chris, but looked at me. I simply shrugged.
Jamie grabbed me by the hand and we followed Chris past the rabbit cages on the left and back toward where hay bales from the season before we stacked up against the far back wall. The barn had a particular smell, one that I loved. It was a mixture of freshly cut grass, animals, and life.
The hay bales, which at one time were neatly stacked and orderly, were now placed at odd angles and into a strange configuration. We could hear someone or something in the back of the barn.
"Get in here!" I heard Jay demanded.
I stared down at the two candles I saw, and couldn’t bring myself to go into the center of the fort. "The candles!" I gasped.
"Shut up and get in here … now!" Jamie demanded. But it was no use. I wouldn’t budge. I backed up as fast as I could, despite more protests –including threats from the boys. As soon as I was safely out of the fort, I left the barn as fast as I could, my heart beating loudly in my chest.
But I was afraid and stood outside the barn, breathing hard. Didn’t they know what they were doing? The hay was mostly wet, or damp, true, but it could still catch on fire. It wasn’t all damaged by the elements; dad had seen to that.
My mind raced with the possibilities. I was especially afraid for Jamie. If the hay caught on fire while they were inside, they could die… and so would the animals.
A few minutes passed, and I could see the three of them emerge from the barn. I silently hoped that they had extinguished the flames of the candles before they left. They looked annoyed by me and passed me, saying, "Not a word."
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to be a "tattle tale" and partly, I hoped to earn their trust. They were only my half brothers and sister and it always seemed like they had their own secret club that I was never a part of. More days passed and still I said nothing. One morning, I woke up late and, like I always did on a beautiful day, sat by the window to admire the beauty outside. I dared not go downstairs lest the day begin and I wanted to enjoy myself just a bit more. It seemed as though the moment Mom heard any movement, she would assign chores, wake up, and start our day of working.
I glanced outside and it was practically cloudless. The sun was shining brightly and the birds were singing their usual happy chorus. I watched as the moisture on the roof of the barn dissipated into the early morning sun. But that’s when I realized that it wasn’t dew but black, angry smoke rising from the building. As quickly as I could, I put my shoes on and raced outside. Dad was already there, running in and out of the barn. He was wheeling out the lawnmower when I found him.
"Get inside the house, now!" He yelled, his voice panicked and harsh.
I immediately obeyed. I waited inside Mom’s greenhouse for signs it was over. But I could hear more yelling and heard the boys being told the same thing.
When it was over, half the barn lay in ruin. I don’t know if any of the rabbits or other animals were hurt, because Dad wouldn’t let me into the barn for weeks. A part of me believes that they had to have been, because given the damage to the barn; there was no way the animals in that section of the barn could have lived.
I had never seen my dad so furious. He yelled at Jay and Chris. Nothing escaped him; he knew exactly who it was. When the yelling was done, I could see that he held in his hand two of the candles, now charred and grotesque looking, that had been recovered from the barn.
No one even questioned whether or not I had started the fire; dad knew me. For once, I felt safe. Safe that is, until Dad started questioned them about their involvement.
I think they would have given in, would have admitted that they were responsible, but Mom came in the room and suddenly their story changed. Before long, the fire was my fault. Jamie claimed she had seen me carting off candles to the barn; suddenly candles that I had never seen before were produced from my room, supposedly "hidden" by me in an attempt to be sneaky.
Before long, I was accused of starting the fire, and with three witnesses against me, I had no chance of anyone believing me. I didn’t even bother to ask them why, nothing they could say would be a good enough answer.
When Mom beat me, she kept demanding I tell her over and over again why I had taken the candles to the barn. But after my hair had been caught on fire, I had been afraid of fire, terrified of it. I could not possibly think of a reason that would make sense to bring the candles to the barn, so I kept telling her the truth, over and over again. She kept hitting me as if the idea of lying to her was more atrocious than the act itself. As each hit continued to torture me, she did not let up and my cries of pain did not stop her.
At some point, I was so much in pain that I found myself unable to breathe. She continued to demand that I tell the truth; she claimed she would stop if I told her the truth. I started to question whether or not I knew what the truth was anymore. It seemed as though it wasn’t the truth she wanted, but merely for me to acknowledge that I was a bad person and that everything was my fault. But she kept hitting me and I could scarcely think as the pain seemed to radiate in all directions in my back. She didn’t even seem to notice that she was now hitting my lower back, the cedar making a painful loud whack as she struck me again and again. When she paused to ask for me to tell her, I made up a story about how I had taken the candles to the barn when everyone was sleeping. I made up a story, ridiculous and impossible, but she didn’t seem to care. She started to hit me again, this time demanding to know why I had lied to her. She didn’t stop hitting me as she promised, and I had given away my integrity. She demanded over and over again to know why I lied to her. No matter what excuse I gave, she would come up with another reason to hit me.
"Why did you lie to me?"
"Because I was scared to get into trouble."
"Then why did you keep lying to me?""I don’t know." I don’t know had been my standard answer, but her questions came as fast as my lies and the whacks even faster.
"Tell me why you lied."
"I don’t know!" I cried, the pain unbearable, the truth like a fleeting thought I couldn’t hold onto.
"WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME?"
"Because I’m a bad girl." I cried out in sheer desperation. Those were the magic words, because she stopped. At long last, she threw the cedar block back into the wood bin.
I pulled up my pants, wincing in pain as the cloth rubbed against my tender backside.
"That’s what you get for lying to me. You don’t seem to learn anything." Her arms were folded now, her eyes distant and cold.
"Now you are going to go to bed." She demanded, pointing inside.
I walked slowly past her, watching her out of the corner of my eye, shaking and afraid to turn my back lest she grab me. She didn’t, but she kept watching me, all the same. Every movement hurt, but I was afraid to show her how much because I feared she would only say something more or do something else. I made my way slowly up the stairs, using the railing to help me. I remember one leg hurting so much that I had to put very little weight on it.
When I got to my room, I was afraid to turn around, afraid to look at what had been done. And yet, I felt my body growing hotter by the second. When I got to my room, all I remember is turning around and seeing something terribly wrong. The backs of my legs had welts the size of softballs sticking out, swollen and hot. Sometime after, I must have collapsed.
I woke up, and found ice packs had been placed under my legs. Jamie stood above me, positioning my legs. Apparently, I must have passed out from the pain, and she picked me up and put me in bed. We didn’t say a word to mom, and luckily she didn’t come up the stairs for us that night.

Suddenly, everything I did was regarded with suspicion. Everything I did was carefully watched and criticized. I didn’t get to play outside or sit in my swing for a very long time. Every day, Mom made me work in her greenhouse, forced to water the plants for hours, clean up dead leaves, replant the pots she had broken in her fits of anger, and stay out of her way. Everything that had gone wrong was my fault; every bad thing that had happened was because of me. I was treated like a bad seed, and Mom often told me how "rotten to the core" I was. She couldn’t believe she had given birth to such an "evil" child. And yet, I kept quiet and kept on watering the plants. My fifth birthday was coming up, and suddenly it didn’t matter anymore.
A few days before my birthday, Dad produced a package and put it next to their bed. I knew it was my birthday present; it was the only time of year when we got anything special. Suddenly, everything that had happened the last couple of weeks dissolved into the curiosity of wanting to know what was in that package. I made excuses to walk by their room when Mom wasn’t there, just so I could try and figure out what it was. The tedious hours spent watering plants melted away as I pondered the mystery of the brown package. There wasn’t much else to think about or look forward to.
The night before my birthday, Dad and Mom got into a giant fight as to whether or not I would get my birthday present.
"She doesn’t deserve it. I think we should take it back." Mom’s voice was demanding.
"It’s hers. I’m not taking it back." Dad’s voice was adamant.
Around and around they went. Mom finally yanked the door open and stared down at me. She had set me to hand wash the entire living room floor.
"You don’t deserve to have a birthday this year, do you?" She stared at me with those piercing blue eyes of hers.
I didn’t know what to say, but the worst response was no response.
"No." I kept on washing the floor.
"That’s right." She snarled. "You don’t deserve a birthday. Therefore, you’re not going to have one."
The days passed slowly; I was given more chores than normal. I somehow had convinced myself that if I did the chores without complaint, I would be reward with whatever it was that was in that package. I hoped that maybe by my birthday, they would forget that I was the "bad child."
The day of my fifth birthday, as I sat on the couch, I recounted all of the events that had happened that had led up to this day. As the day wore on, no one even brought up my birthday. Maybe they forgot! So I decided to say something about it.
"It’s a very special day!" I told my sister, bouncing up and down in front of her.
"I already told you, go away!" she hissed. I left her alone. But later, while she was cleaning the kitchen, I decided to check the fridge to see if they had a cake hidden away for me. There was nothing there.
"There’s no cake." I sighed loudly, shutting the door.
"Shhh." Jamie put her finger to her mouth. "Mom will hear you and wake up!"
"But it’s my birrrthdayy!" I whined. "And you haven’t even said anything to me. You didn’t even wish me a happy birthday!"
Jamie grabbed my arm and looked down at me. "Listen. Mom told us we aren’t allowed to talk about your birthday. So if I were you, I’d just shut up about it already."
So there it was; Mom had decided not to even acknowledge my day. Worse, she had told everyone else not to bring it up either.
"But why?" I protested, even though I already knew the answer. "You could at least wish me a Happy Birthday!" I protested.
"Happy Birthday!" she whispered. "Now leave me alone before we both get into trouble."
I was so upset that I started to cry, and ran out the front door before she could stop me. It was my fifth birthday and Mom told everyone that we weren’t going to celebrate it this year. The one thing I had to look forward to had been taken away from me.
I busied myself with my chores, and tried to forget that it was supposed to be my birthday. I kept singing the words over and over again to myself, but it didn’t feel the same. Usually, I’d get a cake made just for me on my birthday. We didn’t have much money, so cake was rare in our house. Celebrating anything was rarer still. My birthday was being taken away from me for something I hadn’t even done. The thought of it all made me angry at my brothers and especially at my sister for not sticking up for me.
Later that evening, dinner was especially quiet. I was usually the least quiet of everyone; I always had something to say. But today, the sadness I felt couldn’t be lifted. Mom continued to stare at me throughout my meal. I could feel her eyes watching me as I put bite after bite into my mouth, not daring to look up. One by one, everyone else finished their dinners first and asked to be excused. As usual, I was the last one left at the table; it was just Mom and me. The silence made me anxious. At some point, she said, "It’s your birthday today."
I looked up, surprised. Maybe I had been wrong after all.
"Yes!" I dared to let excitement creep into my voice.
She got up from the table and brought me that brown package I had waited so long to open.
"Your dad should have taken this back; you don’t deserve it." She plopped the package in front of me.
I didn’t dare answer, for fear that she would change her mind.
"Open it." She demanded.
"Really?" I looked down at the package wondering if it was a trick.
"Hurry up." She responded. I tore into the brown package with a fury, and there it was-the puzzle I had so desperately wanted. It came in a small box and it was perfect.
I just stared down at it, and couldn’t help but smile. Dad had remembered! That’s why I wasn’t able to find it at the store. He had gone back and gotten it for me.
"May I be excused?" I asked, picking up the puzzle.
"You may." She responded, but she had a strange look on her face. "But you can’t have the puzzle."
I looked up at her curiously.
"I just wanted you to see what you were missing out on." She replied, picking up the puzzle with her bony skeleton hands.
"You don’t deserve to have it. So when I feel you deserve it, I will give it to you. But not until then. Do you understand?"
"Yes." My heart sank. She had given me the puzzle only to take it away again.
Worse, she placed it on her dresser, right where she knew I could see it, and it sat there for weeks and weeks. I tried to convince myself I didn’t want the stupid puzzle anyways, but I did. I pictured putting it together over and over again, and imagining what it might be like to get to eat the cookie. Sometimes I imagined that I would wake up from the bad dream I was having and she would hand me the puzzle and tell me how sorry she was for having taken it away, but she didn’t.
Some time later, Dad saw it sitting on the dresser and mistakenly assumed I had left it there after playing. I don’t think he had any idea she had ever kept it from me. He handed me the box, to my amazement, and said, "Here you go pumpkin. Make sure you put that away so your Mom doesn’t get upset that it’s out."
I knew I wasn’t supposed to get it, but I was so excited, I couldn’t say a word. I took the puzzle up to my room and hid it underneath my pillow. I didn’t dare attempt to put it together just yet.
When Mom found out that Dad had given me the puzzle, she was furious, but after yet another fight, the battle was won. It ended in a flurry of thrown items and slammed doors, but in the end, they seemed to forget why they were fighting. I had been beaten, tortured over something I hadn’t done, and punished for it. But I was also left with the best birthday present I had ever gotten: a silly puzzle shaped like a cookie with a bite taken out.