I had to get out of there. I just had to. You don’t understand, it was hell living in that house. I had no other choice. Children are supposed to wake up to the smell of breakfast. They’re supposed to see their dad kiss their mom before they head out for the day. Children are supposed to be wild and curious. They’re supposed to make up games and wrestle around with their siblings. That is what’s supposed to happen, but that was not my experience.

I woke up to the sound of glass breaking and my dad shouting. I saw my dad hit my mom with such force that I felt the pain. I was quiet and scared. I stayed out of the way and tried to shield my siblings from the horrors of our home. So, the day I turned 18, I left. I left them all.

Leaving dad felt like taking that first gasping breath after being underwater too long. I never felt more alive. But leaving my mom, brother, and two sisters was like accidentally hitting an animal with your car. It’s that unique guilt that sits in your stomach even though you didn’t mean to do anything wrong.

I’ll always remember the look on my brother’s face when I put the last suitcase in the trunk of my car. I’d expected sadness, but instead it was pure fear. I had always protected him as best as I could. I tried to protect all of them. I’d take their punishment whenever dad would let me. I’d tell them to hide under the bed when I could tell he’d poured the drink that would begin the spiral. I did everything I could to make sure dad didn’t hurt them. But that meant I couldn’t stop him from hurting me.

I’d had enough. I knew there was no changing dad. He had always been like this and always would be. I think some people don’t know how to choose to be good. They’ve been evil for so long, they don’t think there’s another option.

So I left. That was my only option. But it meant leaving them behind to fend for themselves. They were only 12, 8, and 5. I tried to rationalize it by remembering that I was only 6 when I started bringing mom bandages and shielding my brother from the flying beer bottles. I survived and I gave them more time than I had to be a kid. It was time for them to grow up like I had to.

I didn’t visit as often as I said I would. I did a pretty good job of convincing myself that I had valid excuses any time it came up. I felt steadfast in my decision to start my life over. It was hard and it was unfair, but I had to do it. I had no other choice. But the moment I got the phone call from the chief of police telling me that my brother killed my dad, I regretted ever leaving.

He would never get into too many details about it. Believe me, I asked. He only ever responded with, “It was hard and it was unfair, but I had to do it. I had no other choice.”