A NIGHT TO BE REMEMBER

“Are you an i***t? Don’t you have a brain?” I immediately covered my ears when I heard my dad shouting. “Lower your voice. The child will hear you, Maxim,” Mom said softly, trying to calm my dad. “Damn it! So what? I didn’t work hard for the company just to come home with no food on the table,” my dad roared. “I told you, there is food. I was just about to prepare it again. You don’t need to shout,” my mom responded gently. I let out a small sob, my tears falling from my eyes. My small hands stayed tightly over my ears, trying to block out my dad’s angry voice and my mom’s pleading tones. After a few minutes, I slowly lowered my hands, realizing that I could no longer hear my dad shouting. The house had finally grown quiet again. “Hi, my love! Are you alright?” my mom asked as she saw me in the kitchen. It was already 8 a.m., and I had just woken up. I bit my lower lip when I noticed a small bruise on her lip. She smiled at me, a bright smile, as if nothing had happened the night before. “I… I’m okay,” I replied in a low voice. She smiled even wider. “Of course, you’re okay. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt my beautiful daughter.” But Dad is always hurting you, Mom... “Did you sleep peacefully last night, my love?” she asked while preparing my breakfast. “It was good… Mom… I slept peacefully last night,” I lied. I was only six years old when I learned how to lie to my parents. It was another nightmare Sunday for me, one of many. My mom’s best friend, Tita Anne, came by our house to surprise my mom, but she was the one who ended up shocked. Broken vases and other trash littered the floor, evidence of another fight the night before. "When are you planning to leave your husband?" Tita Anne asked, her voice shaking with anger as she looked at the bruise on my mom’s cheek. Mom had tried to hide it with some makeup, but it was still there. “It’s just a small bruise,” my mom replied, attempting a smile, though it faltered. "Small bruise? Look in the mirror and see for yourself," Tita Anne said sharply. "It’s still my fault… so just let it go, it’ll disappear," my mom murmured, glancing over at me, thinking I wasn’t listening. My mom always said it was her fault, even though it never was. She thought she could protect me from the truth. But I knew—somehow, I always knew. Days turned into months, and every time my dad raised his voice or worse, Mom would just smile, reassuring me everything was fine. But it wasn’t. Each bruise, each broken object, each strained smile left a mark on my heart. One night, the shouting started again, loud and frightening. I rushed to my bedroom and hid under my blanket, squeezing my eyes shut, hoping it would end soon. But then, I heard footsteps approaching. The door creaked open, and my mom entered, her eyes wet but her expression soft. “Come here, my love,” she whispered, reaching for me. I crawled into her arms, feeling her warmth and the strength she tried so hard to hold onto. In her embrace, I found a small sense of peace, even though I knew it wouldn’t last. “I love you, my beautiful girl,” she whispered. “Mom…” I choked, my little voice barely audible, “why don’t we leave?” She tensed, but then she stroked my hair, soothing me. “Someday, maybe. But for now, let’s be strong, okay?” I nodded, feeling the weight of the words. And the day finally came when my mom burst into my room, carrying two suitcases and a duffle bag. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her hands shook as she gripped the handles tightly. “What happened, Mom?” I asked, my voice small and uncertain. She knelt down to my level, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of fear and determination. “Pack your things, my love. We need to leave this house. Right now.” My heart pounded as I searched her face, trying to understand what had happened. She gave me a quick, trembling smile, but her gaze kept darting toward the door, like she was waiting for someone to storm in any second. “Are we going on a trip?” I asked, still not fully grasping the gravity of the situation. She nodded, reaching for my small backpack and starting to fill it with clothes. “Yes, my love. A long trip. We’ll be safe, I promise.” As she packed, I felt a mixture of excitement and worry. I wasn’t sure why, but I could feel something big was happening. I reached out and held her hand. “Where are we going, Mom?” “To a place where we can be free,” she said softly, her voice catching. Then, she gave my hand a squeeze and whispered, “Don’t worry. Just stay close to me.” We hurried down the hallway, my small backpack slung over my shoulders. I followed her as we passed through the quiet rooms, filled with memories, both happy and painful. When we reached the front door, she took a deep breath, as if she was finally letting go of something she’d been holding inside for so long. “Are you ready?” she asked, her voice steady, even though her hands still trembled. I nodded, clutching her hand tightly. She looked down at me and, despite everything, smiled. I was just 7 years old when we left home. With one last look back, we stepped out into the cold, early morning air. For the first time, the world felt open, filled with possibility. And as we walked away from the house, I felt the weight of all those nights fade, replaced by something new—hope.