I never asked my mother or my father how the domestic violence began, or why it was allowed to continue so long.
I don’t think I ever asked anyone a single question about sex. It was either volunteered, experienced, or intuited. Likely I equated sex and violence, since the room I shared with my brother was only separated from my parent’s by 2 thin sheets of plywood paneling.
I never asked why my father only had one acknowledged living relative, aside from his mother.
I never asked why my mom’s only acknowledged surname relative was her mother.
I never asked why my mom’s mom never re-married, even though her husband died in the early 40’s and she in the 80’s.
Guess I have largely lived my admonition, “If you don’t want to know the answer, don’t ask the question.”
Somehow, early on, I learned that there were things I don’t really need to know. Like sex, they will be volunteered, experienced, or intuited.
My question list is not a list of regrets, but a list of things I can’t believe I had the prescience not to ask.