The walls tremble before the doors do,
before his voice splits the air like a storm,
before Mom folds herself into silence,
before my brother pulls me into the closet,
his hand firm over my mouth,
as if my breath could betray us.
Mom whispers, “It’s okay, go to bed.”
But I count the slams, the crashes, the cries—
and wonder if children like me
ever learn how to sleep.
I stay because I love them,
because they need shelter, food, warmth—
because he wasn’t always this way.
Because I don’t know how to leave
with nothing but two small hands gripping mine.
It’s not always bad. Not always.
And they need their father.
Don’t they?
She won’t leave. She can’t.
There’s nowhere to go, no money, no lifeline—
not with two kids and a court that won’t see past him.
A good man. A working man. A provider.
So I let her cry in the dark, let her call it what it is—hell—
but tomorrow she’ll still pack lunches and fold clothes.
She’ll still tuck us in at night. She’ll stay.
Because that’s what mothers do.
You don’t leave over a bad temper, do you?
Men get angry. Women overreact.
He’s stressed; she should be more patient.
He works hard; isn’t that enough?
At least he’s here. At least we have a roof.
At least the kids have a father.
At least.
For the kids, she stayed.
For the kids, I watched and learned:
that love is sacrifice even when it shatters you;
that family is loyalty even when it bleeds;
that silence is safety even when it suffocates you.
For the kids, I found someone just like him.
For the kids, my brother left fingerprints on his wife’s arm.
For the kids, we swore we’d never be like them—
but we were already broken in their image.
For the kids, we stayed in pieces too long.
For the kids, we told ourselves lies we didn’t believe:
“It’s different this time.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“We’re doing it for them.”
Love does not slam doors off their hinges.
Love does not leave bruises hidden beneath sleeves.
Love does not shrink you until your children can barely find you anymore.
Love does not teach daughters to endure pain as proof of devotion—
or sons to wield anger as power over others.
Love is open arms and steady hands;
it is words that heal instead of wound.
Love is a home where no one has to run or hide or whisper “It’s okay” through tears.
Love is leaving when staying means breaking—
it is showing your children that love should never be feared.
Love is a mother who stands tall enough for her children to see her strength.
Love is a father who earns respect without demanding fear.
Love is a child who never has to wonder:
“Is this normal?”
Love should never have to be survived—especially not for the kids. Staying in a violent home doesn’t protect children; it teaches them that love and pain can coexist, that silence is survival, and that abuse is just part of life. This February, during Teen Dating Violence Awareness Month, it’s crucial to break the cycle before it begins. Domestic violence doesn’t just harm partners—it shapes the next generation. We must teach teens that love is not control, fear, or sacrifice. Leaving is not failure—it’s breaking a pattern that should have never started. If we want to prevent violence, we must show our children what love is supposed to be. Speak up, educate, and break the cycle before another generation carries its weight.
