At the age of fifteen, I would sit on a park bench every morning and watch ducks as they waded across a lake. Each morning my mother would drop me off at the coffee shop as she drove my sisters to school. She always said goodbye with a big smile. My little sister was only five. She seemed to love me. My older sister was seventeen. She ignored me a lot.

I would order my usual: a regular mocha, more chocolate than coffee. I liked it most on the cold mornings. I didn’t even particularly like coffee. But hot chocolate was something my older sister and father would buy, whereas mocha was my mother’s drink. Of course, it seemed natural to get mocha. I loved my mother the most.

I would walk across the road to the park. The park bench was a shiny red as though it had just been painted before my arrival. The grass was green and plush. The lake was a clear, crystal blue only possible in the calmest of tropical oceans. I never had food for the ducks. I just like to watch as they floated around or quacked near my feet. They’d grown used to me after I sat there every morning for months. I sipped my mocha with slight distaste; too much coffee.

Looking back, I can’t remember what I used to think about sitting there at that bench. I’d say those moments didn’t have much consequence in my life, but that would be a lie. I remember that bench as clear as day. I remember sitting there in the cold, wrapped in a scarf-and-beanie set from Target. I remember sitting there when it was warm, shoulders free for the world to see, just like those bad girls at school. I remember one duck in particular: scratched beak, bright green feathers, and murderous eyes.

James, I’d called him. The name had no meaning—I’d only known one James in my life and his face was blank in my mind, like I’d wiped it clean with a whiteboard eraser. But duck-James was a bully. He fought other ducks and terrorised the ducklings. James ruined the atmosphere of my lake. The mornings when he wasn’t around were the best. But, unless I was willing to kill James, I would have to put up with him. So I did.

Some mornings my mother would join me. They were my favourite. We’d sit quietly some days; other days we’d talk non-stop. About how I was feeling. About how she was feeling. Sometimes we’d sit and cry together on that bench. I never noticed James when my mother was around. He was small, insignificant. A duck with no power. My mother was strong, knowledgeable. She knew who she was and what she was doing.

My older sister developed a hatred for me deeper than I thought possible in the year I spent sitting on that bench. She blamed me for everything. She punched me. She yelled at me. My father did similar things, without the violence. I was the problem, not my feelings. Not anyone else. It was me. The reason I felt sad was because I was letting my self be sad. If I just pulled myself up by my bootstraps, I’d be right as rain. Just like my sister was.

I didn’t realise it then, but my mother protected me from my family a lot. She went out of her way to do whatever I needed—therapy, home schooling, coffee on park benches every day for a year. Whatever could help.

I sat on those park benches every day for nearly a year. In that time, I grew happier and my mother grew stronger. So strong, in fact, that she nearly lost her husband. Mother stopped coming to the bench after that.