Why didn’t she leave?
I’d asked myself that question so many times before. Late at night, lying in my bed awake.
But who was I to judge?
After years of mental terror and abuse, she probably didn't even think she deserved better. Maybe she stopped believing she was worth anything. She kept smiling for us and kept the house running. Cooked dinners. Went to work to pay the bills, then helped with homework after that. All while swallowing mental abuse from the only man she ever loved. A broken heart suffering quietly for years.
People in abusive relationships often feel that the mental abuse is worse than the physical. It slowly drives them mad. Quietly. Day by day. Until they started questioning their own thoughts. Their own memories. The abuse takes their self-esteem away first. Then the inner flame. That flame inside all of us that keeps us upright and warms us from within. The part that lets you love others. And love yourself.
Destroyed by some worthless piece of shit.
Gone.
Courts and the police didn’t do shit for women who were beaten black and blue or got stalked and killed. Of course, they wouldn’t do shit for a woman like my mom, reporting psychological abuse and trauma without ever being able to show a black eye.
So no. I refused to blame the victim in this story. Like those idiots asking what a woman was wearing when she got raped. Always the victim's fault. Never the abuser's.
My mother fought the only way she could in a world where women were treated like objects and the courts were ruled by money over justice. She wasn't at fault in this. Not to me, at least.
The highway lights flashed past the windshield.
As the hospital grew closer, something inside me hardened.
What if it was my dad?
What if he paid Myers to kill Zach?
Myers said it was my mom. But what if he’d lied to protect my dad, to keep a card in his pocket for later? For blackmail. For money.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
It made sense.
He’d loved Amanda since they were kids. That cat had been out of the bag for years. He only married Mom when she got pregnant with me. I was a mistake in his eyes.
Then Amanda married Zach. A man my dad never liked. Never respected. He ranted about him constantly. Zach this. Zach that. That asshole. His Porsche.
Zach had money. Stability. A polished life. The pretty wife my dad always wanted.
Then my mom was dying.
The path to Amanda would’ve been clear—if Zach hadn’t been in the way.
And of course he’d blame my mom. Or stay quiet when she was accused. Too much of a coward to step forward. Better her than him.
That’s how it always was.
I arrived at the hospital and parked my car in the same spot as before. The plastic bag felt light in my hand as I stepped out.
I entered the hospital from the back. Inside, the hallways were quiet at this hour.
Quickly, I walked to the red biohazard waste bin, lifted the lid, then dropped in the plastic bag.
It disappeared among other discarded hospital waste that would never be seen again.
The lid closed with a dull thud.
And, just like that, it was done.
