Children were like Dirt

As I child I felt owned. I was owned and abused abused like a slave. "Look busy" they say when you get your first job. I was told look busy but don't enjoy it or we'll send you to Siberia to sweep out the basement spiders. Alone.
I developed a hair trigger nerves. What shrinks now call hyper-vigilance. I could read micro expressions those tiny muscles between my mothers arched eyebrows and know if I was in for a beating. Or the way my mother folded her pink tissue to blot her lipstick I'd know if I'd be treated well. She ate breakfast and supper with our father behind closed doors. Us children were like dirt. To be whisked away and scrubbed by the hired help.

Mug shots spoke volumes. Mouth, eyebrows, ears, eyelids. I was an encyclopedia of odd details. This is exactly what made me a good detective. When I applied to the Millbury police dept I was 60 gray haired and not exactly a whiz at push ups but I gained respect. I felt like Columbo, wrinkled, scattered but right on the money.