A Quirky Relative

"Dad! Don't hit Mom!" I cried and ran over, grabbing my dad's hand to pull him away.

But at fifteen, I had no chance of moving a grown man.

He glanced at me.

I still couldn't forget those bloodshot eyes. "Get lost!"

He kicked me in the stomach, and my back slammed into the sofa.

That kick might've been why I hadn't gotten pregnant after two years of marriage.

I passed out right there, too overwhelmed by pain to imagine how much my mom had endured in silence, still cooking for my brother and me every day.

When I came to, I lay on my bed, my mom rubbing menthol oil on my waist.

I realized that if my brother hadn't forgotten his workbook, I might never have known the happy family I'd lived in for years was a facade.

Today, I'd ripped it apart. "Mom, get a divorce."

Her hand froze, and she said softly, "How can I? You've got your exams soon, and your brother's still young. Sonya, focus on your exams. Don't worry about anything else."

She wiped a tear from her eye and limped out of the room.

Watching my mom leave, I buried myself under the blanket.

My dad knew how to hit without leaving visible marks. To outsiders, my mom didn't look like a victim of abuse. To them, we were still a perfect, happy family.

Thinking of how long my mom had suffered filled me with guilt, but it also hardened my resolve.

From that day, I gave up my dream of studying medicine and chose law instead.

Whenever my dad drank, I'd take my brother out to finish our homework, only returning when it was safe.

At night, I'd help my mom tend her wounds.

Three years later, I got into Zentara University, my dream school, and found Karson, a senior interning at the time.

Together, we put my dad in prison and helped my mom get her divorce.

After the divorce, I took my mom and my brother away from that city to live in Grandma's town, which was also where I'd attend university.