I remember the exact moment I stopped feeling safe.

I was six, hiding behind the couch, hands over my ears, listening to my father’s drunken rage echo through the house. My mother was sobbing. My older brother was trying to stop the fight. And me?

I was praying—begging some higher power to make it stop.

But it never did.

The worst part wasn’t the bruises or the yelling. It was the way my father acted like nothing happened the next morning. The way my mom would clean up the broken glass, put on a fake smile, and pretend we were a normal family.

By the time I was a teenager, I stopped trying to protect my mother. I knew she wouldn’t leave. And when I turned 18, I didn’t even say goodbye—I just packed a bag and walked away.

Now, at 32, I have my own place, my own rules. I swore I’d never be like my father. Never raise my voice. Never put my hands on anyone. But when I get angry, really angry, I feel it—that same rage, simmering beneath the surface.

And that terrifies me.

                                           - Brice