My mom passed away without ever knowing what I went through. She was, without a doubt, the best mom anyone could ask for. She tried so hard, she loved so fiercely, and she did everything in her power to protect us. Yet, I never told her the full story of what happened to me. And there was a reason for that. I wish she truly knew me.
I was thirteen when a quiet, heavy moment unfolded between us. We sat on the floor by her bed, surrounded by my childhood photo albums. I picked up an old family photo just the four of us, sitting on our worn blue couch, smiling at the camera, laughing together. But as I stared at it, I made a choice that changed everything in that instant. I just stay silence over sharing my pain I suffer alone here was no one to listen my pain and heal me. I took scissors and carefully cut him out of the picture. The space where he had been was a sharp void. I felt my mom’s gaze, even without looking, sensing the mixture of confusion, disappointment, and anger etched across her face.
“He always liked to sit so close to you,” she murmured, her voice quivering. “I’m sorry we didn’t leave sooner.” Her words carried guilt, but I didn’t blame her. I took her hand gently in mine and said, “I’m so glad we left when we did. You did everything you could to protect us.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and though she disagreed, I could see the relief in her expression. And that moment I finally forgave her from my heart.
I moved on to another photo just the two of us at an arcade. He had always tried to get me alone, using gifts and favors as a lure. I crumpled that photo and tossed it away, sensing my mother’s tears falling, streaking the black mascara she always wore. I pulled her into an embrace. “I should never have married him,” she sobbed. “I should have known.” But I hold her tighter saying that its not her fault.
Her nose began to bleed, a familiar pattern whenever her grief overwhelmed her. I grabbed tissue from her bedside, folding squares into triangles to stem the flow, just as she had always done for me. “I should have known,” she repeated, her words heavy with regret. That was the moment a protective fire ignited inside me. “No one can call my mom stupid,” I said firmly. “You had no way of knowing he would be such a terrible person.”
At the time she married him, she had just escaped an abusive relationship, with two small children and no one willing to help. She did what she thought was best with the information she had, and she worked tirelessly to keep us safe. I put my arm around her, tears stinging my own eyes. “He’s a jerk, not you. I’m so thankful you got us out. You protected me, and I will always be grateful for that.” And in that moment, I realize how strong she was.
I remembered the nights she intervened when I begged not to be left alone with him, the quiet hours she spent packing bags in preparation for our escape. My mom worked tirelessly to shield me from harm. And yet, she still managed to be a loving, attentive mother driving me to dance practice, giving me freedom while keeping me safe, cutting sandwiches into heart shapes with tiny notes that said, “I love you.”
As she gathered the mess of tissues, mascara, and tears, I held up the trash can for her. Her eyes lingered on the crumpled photo. “I’m so grateful he never acted on his feelings,” she whispered. I feel relief wash over us. I hugged her again, instinctively smiling through my own tears. “Me too, Mommy. Me too.”
But the truth is, he did. My stepfather molested me from the ages of six to eleven. I never told my mom. She passed away three years ago, and I still carry the weight of that silence. I didn’t tell her because she already carried enough guilt and pain.
Abuse is complicated. If a child doesn’t immediately reveal what happened, it isn’t anyone’s fault. And if survivors struggle to share their stories, it doesn’t mean they are weak or flawed. It means healing is messy, and the first priority is safety and recovery. How each family navigates that journey is unique, and every story deserves compassion, understanding, and love.
