Especially me.
I defended him for much longer than I should have.
I explained away the shouting. I explained away the insults. I explained away the nights he came home drunk and staggering. I explained away the shattered dishes and the holes punched into walls. I explained away the missing money. I explained away every cruel thing he said because I kept telling myself the little boy I loved was still somewhere underneath it all.
Sometimes mothers mistake love for endurance.
Sometimes we convince ourselves that if we absorb enough hurt, the person hurting us will eventually remember who they used to be.
I believed that for years.
Then came the night everything changed.
I came home drained after a long shift at the elementary school library where I worked. My feet ached. My back ached. My whole body felt heavy. The mortgage payment was due in a week. The electric bill sat unopened on the counter. For years, I had stretched every paycheck as far as it could go just to keep a roof over our heads.
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When Brandon came into the kitchen, he did not ask how my day had gone.
He did not ask whether I was all right.
He asked for money.
“Need three hundred bucks,” he said casually.
I looked at him. “For what?”
“Does it matter?”
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“Yes.”
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