I know a little bit about what that feels like. The second thedoctor delivered the news that I was expecting, I was instantly in love. A love I didn't know I possessed flowed through my veins like a switch I didn't know existed had been turned on. Sure, knowing I made the baby with the man I loved made it special, but with or without love, the baby was a part of me.
"What happened? Why did the two of you split up?"
"It was little things at first," she says with a furrowed brow as she stares blankly at my dresser. "Things he never cared about started setting him off, like a cup left in the sink or a throw blanket sprawled over the couch instead of being folded. He wasn't meticulous by any means, which is what made his behavior all the more peculiar. How can you complain about a blanket on the couch but leave your toothpaste on the sink, uncapped, or your bed unmade? I never knew what little thing would set him off, because it didn't have rhyme or reason." She grabs one of my pillows and holds it in her lap, taking a few seconds to collect her thoughts. "The short fuse and insults gradually got worse…until accidents entered the picture."
"Accidents?" I repeat, my heart rate quickening with the implication.
She nods slowly. "Insults and jealous accusations turned into abusive behaviors. At first, it was something incidental, easily passed off as a mistake, like closing the door in my face when I was walking into a room. Then, incidentals started to feel like traps, like leaving things where he knew I might fall. The last straw was the night we were in the kitchen, cooking together. Music was playing, and I was chopping up carrots for a soup I was making. He came up behind me, sweet as pie, and kissed my neck before saying, 'You're doing it all wrong. Let me show you.' His hands covered mine, and he started chopping the carrots…until it was my hand."
My eyes instantly drop to the white scar that's been on top of her hand my entire life. She told me she got it cooking, but I never could have guessed its darkness. My heart aches for this woman who must have been so scared.
Her voice is ragged, and her hands begin to tremble. "That night, I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying the moment over and over: the cold steel against my palm, his grip tightening over mine, the deliberate pressure as he guided the blade into my flesh." She pauses, her breathing shallow. "And then his performance afterward, the practiced innocence of a narcissist. 'My fault,' he said. 'I was holding the knife too tightly.' He couldn't guide it properly. But I knew that was a lie. We both knew."
The words come out soft and broken. "The insults had been escalating into targeted strikes. The jealousy had become a maze. Every conversation was a trap. But that night, when he crossed the line from psychological to physical violence, I understood the game he was playing. He was conducting an experiment: How far could he push me? How far would I let him?"
She takes a shaky breath before continuing. "The next day, when I knew he had left for work, I packed a bag with no plan of ever returning, but fate had a cruel sense of timing. I was halfway down the staircase when I heard his footsteps, heavy and deliberate, climbing toward me."
Her hands clench into fists. "Our eyes met through the narrow gap in the railing, and in that split second, I watched recognition dawn across his features. He knew I was leaving him."
She pauses, the painful memories she's kept locked away suffocating. I reach for her hands, intertwining our fingers and giving her strength. I'm here today not because my mother is a victim but because she is a survivor. "You don't have to finish the story, Mom. It's okay."
Her lip trembles. "No, I really do." She swallows hard and squeezes my hand. "It all happened in a blur. One second, I was on solid ground, and the next, sharp and all-consuming pain radiated from every point of my body as I lay at the bottom of the staircase. Another student came to my rescue, calling for help, and when I managed to see through a haze of agony and lift my head, I saw your father, still at the top of the stairs, and for anunguarded second, I saw him as he truly was. No mask. No performance. Just a man surveying his handiwork with satisfaction. And then it was gone as he dutifully ran down the stairs, rushing to my side to ask if I was alright. He knew I wasn't. He knew he pushed me, and I knew I had to disappear. So I did."
The silence that follows isn't empty. It's heavy with the weight of shattered illusions. I can feel the truth of her words settling into my bones like poison, rewriting my identity.
My father was a monster.
For twenty-four years, I had been crafting a redemption story from myths and scraps of nothing. In my mind, he was some phantom prince who, given the chance to know me, would have loved me. But that man never existed. He was nothing more than a mirage I'd constructed to fill the father-shaped void in my life.
The real man carved his intentions into her skin with a warning, and when she didn't bend to his will, a staircase turned into a weapon. He tried to kill her, and then he tried to kill me.
The memory surfaces with crystal clarity: his gloved hand around my mouth, the deliberate pressure, the way his grip tightened when I struggled. I had told myself it was a man unhinged by circumstance. I didn't know his story; I didn't need to. I only needed to survive that moment. But now I understand why I sensed him before I knew him, because those weren't the hands of a man losing control. They were the hands of someone who had found it. He knew all along, standing beside the stop sign as I walked into my house. He knew who I was—the daughter he failed to kill the first time. He was there, plotting his kill, and in my bones, I knew it. I knew him because I led him straight to me.
Maybe the capacity for violence is in my DNA. Perhaps the reason I was able to end his life wasn't because I'm a survivor, or because I'm strong, or even because justice demanded it. Maybe it's simply because I am his daughter, and destruction is the only inheritance he ever gave me.
The thought should horrify me. It should send me running from this room, but instead, I find myself settling deeper into thisnew understanding of who I am. If I killed him because his blood runs in my veins, then maybe that same blood is what allowed me to save both myself and London. Perhaps being his daughter isn't a curse—it's the reason we're both still breathing.
"Mom, I don't know where to start or what to say…" I lean my head on her shoulder and run my thumb over the back of her hand the way she soothed me with the same gesture moments ago. "I understand why you never told me, but you don't have to go through this alone anymore."
"Laneybug, I love you so much, but so does someone else. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me for keeping this inside your entire life, then I hope you can do the same for London."
"Mom, this isn't about London. This is about you, and what you endured, and the years you spent alone with no one to talk to…" I draw off, my heart breaking for my mother. She was so strong, always putting on a brave face for me while living in fear on the run.
"Oh, honey, I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I spent years in therapy to process and cope. I'm okay." Her hands cover mine. "And while I support you in whatever choice you make, that baby in your belly makes London every bit a part of our story. He loves you, Laney. I heard his plea. I saw the pain in his eyes. I know he hurt you, but he's not the man your father was. He thought he was protecting you."
Her comment makes my stomach churn. I know she's right. London does love me, but that only makes it worse. He shattered something fundamental when he let me believe such a terrible lie, something that can't be pieced back together with good intentions and apologies. Even though every fiber of my being wants to forgive him, to find our way back to each other, I'm not sure I can simply erase what was done.
There's always a way. We always have a choice. Usually, the right path is the one that requires the most courage and the most sacrifice, but it's worth taking when love is at stake. However, this cuts deeper than ordinary heartbreak or misunderstanding. This isabout trust, about the foundation of everything we've built together. How am I supposed to build a life with someone who doesn't trust that I can handle the hard stuff?
What makes it infinitely worse is realizing that, for six years, the people I care about have been treating me like I'm made of glass. I've never been fragile. Not once in my life have I backed down from a challenge that terrified me. I've thrown myself headfirst into the unknown, pushed past every boundary that tried to contain me, bent and adapted without breaking. I've survived things that would have destroyed others. So why do the people who claim to love me most act like I'm one strong wind away from collapse?
My annoyance ignites. "Why does everyone think I'm weak?" I throw myself on the bed. "I don't need protection."
"No one thinks you're weak, Laney. I believe when we love something so fiercely, we do everything in our power to sustain it—to protect it. When that source of light is a person, that protection can easily become a crutch, an excuse to hide our own fear. We don't protect what we love because we think it's weak. It's the opposite. We know it holds extraordinary power; it's our life source. It fills our cups, and it gives us purpose. It's that extraordinary power that stops our hands and gives us pause. You see, if we don't protect what we love and it breaks…we break too."
Her words throw water on the embers that were slowly beginning to ignite. I hadn't thought of it like that before. I've been so tired of the secrets, tired of hearing the reasons we keep them, and tired of feeling like I'm a secret away from losing everything, that I've given the idea of them more weight than the truth itself. They're not always kept in vain, and sharing them doesn't always mean betrayal. Sometimes, they're a shield, the very thing holding us together so that we have the strength to see another day.
"Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning," she says, leaning over and pressing a kiss to my temple. "I love you, Laneybug."
