The sound of knuckles striking my mother’s face is burned into my memory. I remember the ruptured blood vessels in her eyes and her piercing screams. I was twelve when I rounded the corner and saw her on the floor, hands raised in futile defense against the man towering over her.
Confused, frightened, and betrayed, I leaped onto his back. It didn’t matter. I was powerless to stop him. The assault ended abruptly, but not because of me. He was a giant. He was possessed. He was my father.
Afterward, my mother rose, steadied herself, and called the police, refusing to surrender her dignity. My father sat in a corner, staring into nothing. I imagine he felt remorse, though I would later learn this was not the first time. Today, he is a different man, soft-spoken and even-tempered. It isn’t easy to reconcile the father I know now with the one who terrorized my mother. My parents are no longer together. I want to believe they were decent people who could not maintain a healthy partnership.
I do not fully understand how witnessing that violence shaped me, but I feel its echoes. Anger and bitterness still rise within me at times. When they do, I remember what happens when a man loses control. As a father, my greatest fear is exposing my children to the same dysfunction and allowing my past to reappear in their lives.
Sharing my story is cathartic, but it is also a reminder. Parents’ relationships leave a lasting mark on their children. If you are a parent, consider how your upbringing has shaped you and how your actions may shape your child. When ignored, history has a way of repeating itself.
“History, with all her volumes vast, hath but one page” —Lord Byron
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