What Was Never Said

I owe you an apology. Not the kind of apology you might expect, but one rooted in all the things I stayed silent about, the battles I didn’t fight, and the times I let you believe this was normal. Not because I was wrong, but because I let it go on for so long. I should have stopped it sooner—for myself, for the children, for all of us. You deserved better. I deserved better. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to stop it. It wasn’t until I felt completely cornered, stripped of any alternative, that I realized leaving was no longer just an option—it was a necessity for survival. Not until I had no choice. 

From the very beginning, I was unwavering in my stance. "I despise patriarchy," I told him plainly, my voice steady with conviction. "If you’re looking for someone to bend to your will, to put your needs above her own, you’ve got the wrong person. I won’t sacrifice myself to uphold outdated ideals." 

He smiled then, a wide, disarming smile that seemed to promise safety. "That won’t be an issue," he assured me. "I respect strong women." His words felt sincere, and for a while, I let myself believe them, not realizing how much easier it is to say the right things than to live by them. 

It wasn’t until I moved to his country, leaving behind my friends, my family, my support system, that things began to shift. Subtly at first. Little comments, small criticisms, the kind that are easy to brush off. But they grew, taking root and spreading like ivy, until I was ensnared. 

“Your mother is a loser because she is just a teacher,” he said once to our three young children. “If I worked at that school, everyone would be blowing me!” 

I remember how their faces fell, confusion clouding their bright, innocent eyes. I wanted to scream, to tell him to stop, but the words caught in my throat. He had a way of twisting things, of making it seem like I was overreacting, too sensitive, too emotional. 

“You’re teaching them to disrespect their father,” he accused when I challenged him later. “What kind of mother does that?” 

And so, I apologized. Not because I was wrong, but because it was easier than the fight. Because it was what I’d always done. Whenever he hurt me, he found a way to make it my fault, and I…I let him. 

Then came the diagnosis. Cancer. A word that shifted the ground beneath our feet and made everything else seem insignificant. His family rallied around him, and suddenly, I was the villain for not being “supportive enough.” They couldn’t see—or refused to see—the bruises, the brokenness, the years of verbal and physical abuse I had endured. 

“You should be with him,” they said. “For the children. For him.” 

What about me? Didn’t I matter? Didn’t my pain, my safety, count for anything? 

I tried. God, I tried. For a time, I moved back, hoping…I don’t know what I hoped. That the illness would soften him? That the anger that had defined so much of our relationship would dissipate under the weight of mortality? It didn’t. 

If anything, it got worse. His frustrations, his fears, his pain—they all found their outlet in me. He lashed out, and I…I absorbed it. Then came the drinking, a way for him to drown the pain the medication couldn’t touch. The children begged him to stop, their small voices filled with more wisdom than anyone else around us. But he wouldn’t—or couldn’t. One evening, in a fit of anger, he slammed a door into our daughter’s head. Repeatedly. I’ll never forget her cries, the terror in her eyes. 

His parents saw it happen. His father saw it. Yet he insisted, “You should stay. He needs his family.” 

That was it. We left again. This time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. I took the kids and we went. I wouldn’t subject them—or myself—to another moment of it. 

At family dinners, his father would frequently tell his mother to be quiet when she tried to contribute to the conversation. During our final visit, my children noticed this dynamic too. My daughter commented, “This is probably where Daddy learned it.” Her words lingered, heavy with truth. 

Almost a year later, his cousin called. “It might be his last days,” he said. Against my better judgment, I brought the children to see him. At first, he seemed different. He was civil, even kind in moments, as if the shadows of the man I once thought I knew had re-emerged. The kids saw a glimpse of the father they had wanted, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to hope. But it didn’t last. The civility was a thin veneer, and soon, his anger returned, bubbling beneath the surface. 

Then he fell unconscious. I called his younger brother, who rushed him to the emergency room. He spent the next few weeks in the hospital, in and out of consciousness, his body wasting away until he was little more than skin and bone. Seeing him like that, I couldn’t imagine starting a fight. But his father could. “You should have stayed,” he hissed at me, his eyes full of accusation. As if all of this—every bruise, every broken moment—was my fault. 

We left again. This time for good. And a few days later, he was gone. 

I never got my apology. Not once did he acknowledge the pain he caused, the damage he did. And yet, when I heard the news, I felt no satisfaction, no relief. Just an ache, deep and hollow, for what could have been. 

Now, here I am, trying to piece together a life from the fragments he left behind. The kids and I have found a new rhythm, a new normal. It’s not always easy, but it’s ours. And for the first time in years, I feel free. 

So, yes, I owe you an apology. For staying as long as I did. For letting it go on. For not being stronger, sooner. But I also owe myself forgiveness. Because I’m learning, slowly but surely, that surviving isn’t just about enduring. It’s about reclaiming, rebuilding, and finally… 

Finally, letting go.