Being His

“Mum… you’re hurt.”

My small voice came out barely louder than a breath, fragile and scared. I hadn’t meant to speak so loud. I wasn’t supposed to let him know we were awake.

Her head turned toward me slowly, as though even that small movement required effort. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t smile. For a moment, I hoped she wouldn’t—because the smile hurt more than the bruises ever could.

“I’m fine, muffin,” she said softly, the words wrapped in a faint smile that trembled at the edges. Her lips were split, swollen in a way that made my chest ache, but she still smiled like she always did. Like nothing could ever truly touch her.

I climbed closer, my small hands reaching up to cradle her face. My fingers brushed against skin that wasn’t supposed to look like that—shadows where light should have been, colors that didn’t belong. Her eyes were swollen and darkened, one barely open, the other rimmed with red. Her cheekbones carried marks I didn’t have words for yet.

But through all of it… she was still beautiful.

She always was.

Her smile held something heavy behind it, something I couldn’t understand at that age but could feel deep in my bones. It was the kind of smile that had learned to survive. It never faltered—or maybe it did, but she never let me see it. She smiled through everything.

Through the pain.

Through the fear.

Through the silence.

She reached up, her hands shaking as she held my wrists, pulling my palms toward her lips. She pressed soft kisses against my skin, one after the other, lingering as though she needed them just as much as I did.

“I’m fine, muffin,” she whispered again. “I promise.”

I didn’t believe her.

But I nodded anyway.

I wrapped my arms around her neck, burying my face into her long brown hair. It smelled like jasmine and roses—always did. That scent was my safe haven. She was my safe haven. Whenever the world became too loud, too dark, too scary, I hid in her arms and pretended nothing else existed.

Her arms came around me, trembling as they held my small body close. She nuzzled into my neck, breathing me in, clinging like she was afraid I might disappear. I felt something wet against my skin and heard the smallest sound escape her lips—a broken little whimper she tried to swallow whole.

It was gone as quickly as it came.

I held onto that moment.

That tiny pocket of peace in a life that felt like hell.

I held onto it for the rest of my life. I cherished that hug, replayed it in my mind over and over, clung to it when everything else fell apart.

Because I didn’t know then…

That it would be the last time I ever felt her warmth.

---

I sat on the same couch now.

The same couch I had sat on fourteen years ago.

Time hadn’t changed it much. The fabric was worn, the cushions sunken in places where memories refused to fade. I used to sit here every single night, my small feet barely touching the floor, waiting.

Waiting for the house to fall silent again.

The memories came rushing back like a wave of nostalgia so heavy it nearly drowned me. I could still see myself there, a child trying desperately to put something broken back together. Trying to nurse my father’s punching bag back to health.

It killed me—every single day—to watch the woman I loved…

The woman who gave me everything.

The woman who taught me everything.

Be reduced to something disposable.

Her cries used to echo through the house, muffled by walls that never protected her. Her pain lingered long after the sounds stopped, settling into the corners of the rooms like a curse. Even now, the silence screamed louder than the noise ever did.

Those sounds followed me into my sleep. They lived in my dreams, twisted and endless, replaying on a loop I couldn’t shut off. I’d wake up shaking, heart racing, convinced I could still hear her.

And when it was finally over—when the house fell quiet again—I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I tried.

I tried the best I could.

The best a seven-year-old could.

Small hands. Big heart. No power.

But I wasn’t enough.

Nothing I ever did was enough. And in the end, none of it mattered. She had suffered enough. More than enough.

Every day, I asked myself the same question.

Why?

Why didn’t she leave?

Why didn’t she run away?

Why didn’t she save herself?

But then I looked into the mirror.

And I saw the answer staring back at me.

I hated that answer.

This one reason—this worthless, useless reason—took my mother away from me.

Me.

I wasn’t worth it.

I never was.

I wasn’t worth the hours of pain she endured.

I wasn’t worth the nights she stayed.

I wasn’t worth the fear, the silence, the lies.

And yet… she stayed.

She endured it all with a smile on her face. For me.

Her smile—forever etched into my memory. Whether I wanted it there or not. Sometimes it was my strength. Sometimes it haunted me. Sometimes it did both at once.

She was strong. She was kind. She was everything good in a world that showed her none of it in return.

What she stood for wasn’t worth it.

It killed her in the end.

I killed her.

It was my fault.

Mine and no one else’s.

My fault.

And yet, she never made me feel like the burden I was. She never once let me believe I was the reason she suffered—even though I was.

She was too good.

Too good for the life she was forced to live.

Too good for the man she married.

Too good for the pain she endured.

Too good for me.

And no matter how much time passed…

It would always be my fault.