And guess what? I waited. Even before she had no choice but to take me back from my grandparents, we lived together for a bit. Me, her, and her abusive boyfriend who used to hit her.

His name was Igor. Not gonna go off on the name “Igor,” but yeah — since then, every Igor gives me the ick. He was tall, kinda had that whole “man of the house” energy, and he had his own apartment.

Mom was living with him — and somehow, I ended up there too. It felt like we were there forever, but it was probably just a few weeks. A month, maybe. Still, it stuck with me.

So. The apartment. There were at least two rooms. One big one with a TV — that’s where Mom and Igor slept. Then a smaller one, where I slept. Not alone though — I shared it with Igor’s daughter. Can’t remember her name, but we were around the same age. We got along okay, I guess. I don’t remember playing much, but I do remember pinching her every night before bed. There was just this tension in the air — like aggression was part of the wallpaper.

There was a kitchen too, and on the way to it — a bathroom. That bathroom was wild. The walls weren’t even real — just wooden slats. Not sure if it was under construction or just permanently unfinished, but I could see straight through them. And every night, I’d see Igor lying in the tub. I didn’t see anything explicit, but it had this weird king-on-a-throne vibe. Like he owned the whole fucking world.

Igor had an ex-wife named Natasha — probably the one who dropped off the girl I used to pinch. Natasha had this huge fur hat. I actually liked her.

During the day, I’d hang out with Mom in the big room. That part was fun: cassette tapes with little inserts, a TV, toys. Music videos always playing. And this is where my brain got wrecked for the first time.

Here’s the most vivid memory I have from that time: wolves tearing into human flesh. Blood. Sex scenes. A woman burning alive. Creepy-ass music.

If you’ve ever seen the video for Mylène Farmer’s “Beyond My Control,” you know the exact kind of psychological damage I’m talking about.

I was four. And I watched that video constantly. Like, on repeat. I called it “Where the Wolves Are.” Mom thought it was hilarious.

It didn’t scare me — it fascinated me. But watching it now, as an adult? I honestly have to ask: was something seriously wrong with my mom? Every time I hear that music now, I get these insane flashbacks. I still love Mylène Farmer, by the way, but let’s be real — you don’t show that shit to a four-year-old.

Same goes for scenes of women getting hit — only these weren’t on TV. They were real. No blood or anything, just slaps and shoves. Igor was a classic abuser — didn’t hold back. Mom always bragged about how she “hit back” — and yeah, she had her own sadistic tendencies — but let’s not pretend women can physically match men. It’s just not a fair fight.

Speaking of sadism — one of our favorite games, mine and Mom’s, was the pillow game. The rules were simple: she’d cover my head with a big-ass pillow and press down. Hard. She’d hold it there for minutes. I’d get full-on panic attacks and start freaking out from claustrophobia. That’s when the game “ended.”

I really wanted to beat the game, so I’d beg her to play it again. Sometimes I’d find a way to cheat it — like, maybe there was a gap where I could see a little light or breathe some air. I just wanted to stop being scared. To relax and trust she’d eventually let go. And sometimes I actually did. I’d stay still. Wait it out. But then she’d push harder. And if I started struggling, she’d double down. Eventually I’d freak out — start screaming — and then she’d lift the pillow. I never won that game.

Our little “family” setup didn’t last long. We ended up back at my grandparents’ place. Igor used to come over and punch the wall because he didn’t dare hit Mom in front of my grandparents. A couple times he even cried — and seeing a grown-ass man cry was honestly one of the weirdest things ever. Eventually, he disappeared.

And so did my life with Mom — for the next five years.