From “Walk with Me: A Journey through the Landscape of Trauma” by Ellen Corcella
The divorce left me to ping-pong between my parents. I was the telegraph line through which they communicated their resentments, anger, and irritation. I was the weapon each used to retaliate against the other. I was referee, negotiator, and confidante. Sometimes I sat with my mother for hours, listening to her endless stories, staying as still as a statue, pacifying her so she’d stay calm and not wake my brother and sister.
Even before he arrived, my mother ordered me to stay home, to refuse to go with my father for his court-ordered weekend visitation.
“Come on, Ellen, let’s go.” My father, Giovanni “John” Corcella, the handsome Italian immigrant wanting a better life in the U.S., waved his arm. He stood framed by magnificent two-story white columns; my siblings were already in his car.
“If you leave, do not bother to return, you traitor.” My mother, Helen Bernadette Goode, the blue-eyed, blonde-haired daughter of Irish immigrants, stood behind me under the crystal chandelier dominating the foyer.
It had come to this. Every interaction a loyalty test, every encounter a battle requiring me to take sides. My needs or wants were not their concern. I was the sacrificial lamb in their rivalry.