The Drive Home The son was sinking low on the horizon, casting long streaks of pink and orange across the sky. Jackson sat in the back seat, his small hands resting on the edge of his new piano book, his eyes still wide with excitement from his first lesson. He loved every minute of it, and the joy in his voice as he tapped out rhythms with his fingers filled the car with warmth. I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rare, quiet peace as we drove. “Mom,” he said suddenly, his voice soft but clear. “I wish my dad could see me right now.” My heart clenched. I took a slow breath and kept my eyes on the road ahead, the fading light casting long shadows across the highway. I glanced at Jackson through the rearview mirror. His face was so innocent, still so full of hope and curiosity. He barely remembered his father—how could he? Dustin had been gone for years, long before the final blow was struck. But somehow, Jackson remembered enough. Enough to wish for something more. Enough to long for someone better. “He would be proud of you,” I said gently, keeping my voice steady even though I could feel the storm rising inside me. “You’ve got his adventurous spirit, you know. He loved trying new things, just like you.” Jackson smiled at me, his small face lighting up like that was all he needed to hear. Moments like this were why I told those small half-truths. Not for Dustin, but for Jackson. For my son, who deserved to feel like he came from something good, something loving. But as I drove, my mind drifted back to a moment I had kept locked away for years. It was that night—one of many—when Dustin’s drinking had pushed him over the edge. We had argued, and he had trapped me in the bedroom, keeping me away from Jackson. He had held the door shut, taunting me, trying to break me down. When he finally let me out, I went straight to Jackson, scooping him up, ready to leave the house and escape. But Dustin wasn’t done. He took Jackson from my arms, laying him on the floor, then forced me down beside him. I remember the feel of the cold floor beneath me, Dustin’s weight pinning me down, his voice demanding promises I couldn’t keep. I remember looking across the room at Jackson—my baby—lying on the floor, his wide, innocent eyes locking with mine. In that moment, something inside me broke free. I made a silent promise to him, to both of us. We’re going to get out of this, I had thought. I will get us out of this. I will fight for us. It took time. It took more strength than I thought I had. But I did it. I got us out. We were free. Dustin had loved Jackson, in his own broken way. But his demons had been stronger than his love. In the end, those demons took everything from him. I thought back to the day I got the call. It was the day after Dustin died. Internal bleeding, they said. Some fight that went too far, his body too worn down from years of drinking to heal itself. He was alone at the end, surrounded by strangers who cared little for him. People who had helped him self-soothe with illegal substances until his body finally gave out. I had broken the news to Jackson carefully, choosing my words as delicately as I could. “Your dad had some problems that were too big for him to solve,” I told him. “He loved you, but he was very sick in his mind and his body. He’s not in pain anymore.” I remember watching Jackson’s face, his small brow furrowing in confusion. He didn’t cry, didn’t ask many questions. Instead, he accepted it with that quiet understanding only children seem to possess. Since then, every now and then, Jackson brings up his dad in moments like this—when the world feels peaceful, when it seems safe to wonder aloud about the man he barely remembers. And every time, I speak carefully, gently painting a picture brighter than the reality ever was. But as I gripped the steering wheel and let the memories flood in, I realized something that I had never truly let myself acknowledge before: I would do whatever it took to protect Jackson from the truth, even if it meant making Dustin seem like someone he wasn’t. Even if it meant telling him that his father was a better man than he had been. I wasn’t protecting Dustin’s legacy; I was protecting Jackson’s heart. If Dustin were watching from wherever he was, he might think he’d won a small battle. He might see my words as some kind of victory, as if I still felt the need to defend him, even after everything. He might think that, in the end, I had to make him seem like a good man because he had left a mark on me. Maybe he would think that, somehow, he still had power over me. But he didn’t. I knew better. I had won. I had freed myself and Jackson from the cage Dustin had built around us. I had fought through the fear, the sleepless nights, the court battles, and every dollar spent on legal fees to make sure we were safe. As I drove into the fading light, it hit me that by protecting Jackson from the darkness of his father’s past, I was giving him a future untouched by those shadows. Dustin hadn’t won anything. He had never even come close. I had won because we were free from him. I had escaped the man who had tried to break me, who had tried to keep me trapped. And more than that, I had built a life where Jackson would grow up knowing love, knowing peace, knowing safety. If that meant telling small lies to protect him from harsh truths, so be it. I would carry that weight, just as I had carried everything else Dustin had left behind. As the last light of sunset faded, I smiled softly to myself. The power Dustin had once held over me was gone, reduced to nothing more than whispers of a past I had fought to overcome. Jackson was safe. We were safe. And I would continue to shield him from the worst of it, even if it meant pretending that Dustin had been someone worthy of his love. Because that’s what love is—sacrificing my own truth to protect the purity of Jackson’s heart. I reached back and touched Jackson’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He squeezed back and leaned into his seat, content and safe. “I’m proud of you, too,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn’t sure if he heard me, but it didn’t matter. The words hung in the air between us like a promise, like the final notes of a song that had taken years to compose. And as we drove deeper into the night, the darkness felt less suffocating than it once had. By Survivor Samantha |
The Journey of a Domestic Violence Survivor: Healing and Resilience
By Survivor The life of a Survivor of Domestic ViolenceThe repair of the abuse is never repaired because the damage is too unrepairable, mental or physical abuse stays with the survivor for life.Future relationships will be affected by the triggers of the survivor and the relationship will usually suffer, to...
