At twenty-six, Mom was actively praying for a savior. And with two failed marriages under her belt and three kids to feed, she desperately needed one. She had spent her life searching for love, for belonging, and for deliverance from the endless sting of rejection and abandonment that defined her life. The pit of loneliness she tried to bury down deep still smelled of desperation and inevitably led to further disappointment.
She had ended up in Chico after following Ricco, the boyfriend who had saved her from Bob, her kids’ father and second husband, a drunk truck driver with a violent streak. She knew it was time to leave that marriage when Bob stumbled through the door one night, reeking of whiskey, and woke her from sleep with the cold barrel of a gun pressed against her forehead, rattling his typical nonsense.
That night was the first time she had ever prayed. With the metallic scent of the gun in her nose and her heart pounding, she begged God for help. “If you get me out of this, if you let me live,” she whispered, “I’ll leave him and I will worship you.”
When Bob suddenly rolled off her and passed out, she knew—without a doubt—that God was real. He had answered her prayer. This was the first “miracle” God had granted, and she knew she’d have to keep her promise.
Ricco was a regular at the Denny’s where Mom worked the graveyard shift, refilling lukewarm coffee and slinging Grand Slams for truckers and college kids trying to sober up after a night of cheap beer and bad decisions. He was smooth-talking and sharp-dressed, with a cocky grin that hinted at trouble, but she had always been a sucker for a handsome face. She could tell Ricco liked the way she looked, even in her polyester uniform with grease stains down the front of her shirt, because he flirted shamelessly, lingering at the counter long after his eggs had gone cold. And she let him, because it felt good to be seen, to be wanted. Maybe he was the one to rescue her from her abusive marriage, the exit she’d been praying for.
Ricco was the kind of man who could make you forget your troubles and make you feel beautiful, and Mom craved both. So, when he asked her to leave with him, she didn’t hesitate. She packed up her kids and whatever would fit in his van, leaving Bob behind and chasing the promise of a better life with Ricco.
As a kid, I hated when Mom told stories about Ricco and his chiseled face. First, because I could tell it was probably disrespectful to Dad, but he never seemed to mind, so I minded for him. Second, because something about Ricco just gave me the creeps, even if it was only through the secondhand retelling of events. These weren’t the sometimes funny, wild tales she boisterously shared to get a laugh or garner the attention of a room. They were the kind that made your stomach feel like something bad was about to happen.
Ricco sounded like a real piece of work—a drifter, a predator, a wannabe commune leader. He had this strange, magnetic pull over people, and Mom, unfortunately, was an easy target.
They moved into a shabby pink house on the outskirts of town, a place so run-down and chaotic it seemed to attract every kind of trouble. Soon, Mom began to second-guess herself. I know this because I’d heard her tell this story at least a million times. Whenever anyone would ask how my parents met, she’d always say, “Well, I need to start from the beginning so you can see how God answered my prayers.” I’d exhale noisily, my stomach growling, and walk into another room or outside to join my siblings, knowing whatever was previously planned—our lunch, or dinner, or imminent departure—would now be postponed for several hours.
It was the mid-70s, so the rules were loose, boundaries were nonexistent, and anything went. Tarot readings, drugs of various kinds, random sex partners crashing in the living room. But it was Ricco’s blatant worship of the devil and involvement in a satanic cult that really freaked her out.
For all the dysfunction and madness that had consumed her life, it was the idea that she might be living with an active devil worshiper that finally shattered her blind devotion to Ricco. If there was one thing that genuinely terrifies my mother, it’s the mention of Satan. Desperate, she found herself praying again, begging God to get her and the kids out of that house before someone became a human sacrifice. Mom always gets very dramatic and animated telling this part of her story, and as a kid, it scared the living shit out of me. She’d go on to tell of satanic rituals she witnessed and ceremonies that she was certain involved unmentionable sacrifices.
Listening to her tell this story was as close as I’d ever come to seeing a horror movie, since we were never allowed to watch television. I couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than watching a real-life sacrifice. I knew what one was, though, because before bed Dad would read us stories from the Bible of how Abraham was called to sacrifice his son Isaac and the story of Cain and Abel, all of which gave me nightmares.
But life in the pink house continued to undeniably spiral out of control, regardless of how hard she prayed, culminating with a knock on the front door one afternoon. A knock, if she was honest with herself, she knew was coming. Child Protective Services stood on the front porch on the other side of a torn screen door. They handed her the court order and pushed their way past her into the living room.
When they stepped inside, they found my older twin sisters, Kim and Shelly, lying on a bare mattress in the back room, their tiny bodies weak, dehydrated, and malnourished. They’d had diarrhea for days, their diaperless bottoms so red and sore, Mom trying in vain to explain how they didn’t want to wear diapers, and since the diarrhea was so bad, she’d decided to let them go naked—why waste good diapers? She wasn’t made of money. The place stunk, the child neglect impossible to ignore, the abuse too obvious to overlook.
“Where’s the third child?” they asked Mom. “Where is the boy?”
They found Andy, my older brother, unsupervised as usual in the backyard, smashing glass against the fence and trying to light it on fire.
Soon the social workers arrived, packing up her three kids and placing them in foster care.
Yeah, Mom desperately needed saving.
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About the Author: Sarah Centrella is a keynote speaker, executive mindset coach, and multi–bestselling author known for teaching people how to create a clear vision for their future and develop the mental fitness to achieve it. She is the author of four books, including Think It, and has worked with professional athletes, executives, corporate teams, entrepreneurs, and organizations around the world. Book her to speak at your next event. Sarah is also a podcast host and the Founder of VIVIAMO.
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