Shadows of a Broken Home

I was only twelve when my world shattered. I still remember that night like it was etched into my skin the cold metal of the knife, the look in my mother’s eyes, the sound of her scream piercing through the house. And then silence. My father had killed her, right there, in front of me. I froze, too terrified to move, my heart pounding like it would burst from my chest.

After that, everything changed. My father told everyone she had died in an accident. He lied with such ease, and everyone, even people I trusted, believed him. But I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t forgive. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother’s face, heard her voice. I missed her so much it felt like my chest would cave in.

Life became a prison. My father acted as if nothing had happened. A few months later, he brought a second wife into our home. She smiled, pretending everything was normal, but to me, it was a mockery of the family we had lost. I hated her. I hated him. I hated how the world seemed to move on while I was trapped in a nightmare.

Years passed, but the memory never faded. Then, one day, the law caught up with him. My father was arrested for what he had done. People said justice was served. And maybe it was. But for me, it didn’t feel like it. How could a piece of paper, a prison cell, or a court sentence ever bring back my mother? How could it erase the years of fear, confusion, and grief I had carried alone?

I still haven’t forgiven him. I don’t think I ever will. Forgiveness feels like a betrayal to my mother’s memory, a way of telling the world that it’s okay what he did. It’s not. And some nights, when the house is quiet, I cry for her, for the hugs I’ll never feel, for the laughter that is now only a memory.

But I hold on to her in other ways. In the small things her cooking, the stories she told, the warmth of her smile in my mind. She lives in me. And even though the pain never fully goes away, I try to carry her love forward, because it’s the only thing that makes this broken world bearable.

Losing her changed me forever, and yes, I will never forgive him. But I can honor her. I can survive. I can remember. And in that remembrance, she still lives.