When the marriage ends,  
and the child is still too small to understand  
what's been torn,  
why is it that the man tells his friends—  
"She was crazy."  
"She never got off her ***."  
"She was too emotional."  
"She never took care of the kids."  

And no one asks him,  
"Why did you stay?"  
Why did you have children with her?  
Why did you marry her in the first place?  
Why does she have full custody now?"  

No one dares to ask,  
because they already know.  

Men stay—  
for the comfort of control,  
for the invisible chains that bind women  
with babies,  
with promises that were never kept.  

They know,  
the way a child knows their mother’s touch  
but never her heart.  

The man knows his power in her silence,  
in her labor,  
in her sacrifices—  
the ones no one sees but her.  

And yet, when she walks away, they ask her,  
"Why did you stay so long?"  

Because they know the cost of leaving  
was more than she could afford.  

But still she walked.  

Still she left.  

Why did she stay?  

For the love she thought might change him.  
For the chance that maybe—just maybe—  
he’d become the man she believed in.  
For the hope that her children would have a father who cared.  

But he didn’t.  

He stayed because he knew—  
the house wouldn’t run without her.  
The kids wouldn’t be fed,  
the bills wouldn’t be paid,  
and the image of a family was more important than the truth.  

Men stay because it’s easier to claim a woman  
than to be the man they promised to be.  

And when she leaves, they don’t ask themselves,  
"Why couldn’t I be better?"  

They just ask,  
"Why did she stay so long?"