The Day I Taught My Son Abuse Was Okay

Stand Up for Your Kids' Mom

Every one of us has a past.
Some of us carry shadows tucked in the corners of the homes we’ve built.
Shadows we ignore, hide from, pretend away.

And yet—we go on. We keep living, being, surviving.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself about those shadows.
Asking: Is staying silent... enabling?
When we hide our history, are we creating healing—or just hiding the hurt?

We’ve all had moments of weakness.
I am strong now.
But I wasn’t always.

---

It was late.
The children were asleep.
He came home from “dinner with the guys,” reeking of alcohol and tobacco, red-eyed and unsteady.
Yes—he drove himself home. Again.

We’d been dating for months. The cracks in his mask were beginning to show.

He pulled me close. I pulled away.

And that rejection? That was his trigger.

The insults erupted like lava:
“Bitch. Whore. Slut.”
He screamed. He punched the bed. He threw things.
He told me I was judgmental. That I forced him to lie.
That I should love him as he is, lies and all.
He listed all my flaws, all the things he "put up with."

I was stunned.
This was new.
Yes, I’d confronted his drinking. His smoking.
But this?

I tried to leave the room.

He tackled me to the floor.

Pinned. Powerless. Face pressed to the carpet.
His weight crushed me. His breath hot on my neck. His spit stung my cheek.
I struggled, then pleaded.
“I’ll let you go when you calm down,” he growled.

So I stopped fighting.
I lay still. Eyes shut. Silent.
I “calmed down.”
And he finally let go.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Ashamed.
He kept berating me, tearing me down, justifying his rage.

Eventually, he passed out.
I climbed into bed beside him—carefully.
I was afraid to sleep on the couch.
Afraid he’d wake up and be angry I had "abandoned" him.

So I stayed. And I cried—into my pillow, silently.

---

At the time, I didn’t know the term gaslighting.
But I knew how the words felt:
They slithered into my mind, coiled tight around my insecurities, poisoning everything.

I blamed myself.
I believed him.
Next time, I thought, I’ll handle it better.
Next time, I’ll stay quiet. I’ll surrender. It’ll be easier than this.

Because even then, I knew—there would be a next time.

---

Morning came.

The light through the curtain revealed what darkness concealed.
He woke up, sobbing. Apologizing. Promising.

“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll never lie again.”
“I’ll never drink and drive again.”
“I’ll quit smoking.”
“I love you too much to lose you.”
“You’re my queen.”

And I believed him.

That first time... I believed him.

---

But something had changed.

I began walking on eggshells.
I became quiet, careful, agreeable.
I wore my smile like armor.

That morning, I stood at the stove making eggs, the oil spitting in the pan.
Steam brushed my face.

Then—
“Mom?”

I hadn’t heard him come in.
My pre-teen son placed his arm around my waist, laid his head on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently.

And I knew—he had heard it all.

The yelling.
The names.
The crashing.
The struggle.

He didn’t know I hadn’t been hit.
To him, I had been.
And he had been powerless.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m alright.”
And that was all.

I didn’t leave that man for another seven months.

But that day, I taught my son abuse was acceptable.
That day, I taught him it was okay to treat a woman like that—because she might stay.

---

I used to think that night happened to me.
But it happened to my son, too.
I saw it in his eyes—I couldn’t justify staying.

No matter how kind or funny or loving that man was the rest of the time, that one night changed everything.

To a child, their mother is everything.
To a child, seeing her hurt is trauma.
Hearing her screamed at is terror.
Feeling powerless to stop it is soul-crushing.

After that day, my son didn’t trust him.
He never left his little brother alone with him.
He started investigating him.

And the day I finally asked that man to leave, my son said:
“Do you want me to show you where he hides alcohol?”

That was the day I finally taught my sons that their mother deserves respect.
That love isn’t pain.

---

I didn’t protect their mom that first night.
But I have ever since.

Now, my children see a woman who stands up for herself.
And in doing that, I stand up for them.

They’ve learned that if they ever act like that man did—
A woman will leave.

Because it’s not just about me.
It’s about us.

What are our children learning from our example?

---

This Mother’s Day, I share this with you—the women who are trying to “keep the peace,” to “be nice,” to “not make waves.”

I see you.

Protect your children’s mother.
Teach them what love looks like.
Teach yourself what love looks like.

You are not alone.
You are not weak.
You are not crazy.

You are powerful.
You are worthy.

---

If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse, please reach out:
National Domestic Violence Hotline

---

Let your children see what strength looks like.
They deserve a safe mom.
You are the only one they have.

Stand up for her.

Find me at katiejodrum.com