I would never marry a man like my father— never let someone like him raise my children, call them his. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t all bad. There were good memories— but the bad ones were louder, longer, heavier. So loud, I can't remember the good without the bad crashing in after. And that’s a problem. I don’t want my kids living that kind of fear. I don’t want them watching their father break down a door just to run from them. I don’t want them lying still in the dark, hearts pounding, wondering if tonight’s the night he disappears for good. I don’t want their father climbing walls, sneaking out windows, escaping the love he helped create. I don’t want my daughter to hold her tongue, to take back her words because she’s scared they might make him leave. I don’t want her pulling a knife from his hands with shaking fingers, when she should just be a child. I don’t want my children learning to be quiet, learning to shrink, learning to be strong before they’re ready. I don’t want them wiping away my tears when someone should be wiping away theirs. And if they cry for their father— let it only be because they loved him deeply, because he gave them something worth missing. Not because he walked away while they were begging him to stay.