"It's not as easy as you think," she interrupts. "I don't want to lose everything."

The realization hits me like a sucker punch—she's not going to leave him. No matter how bad it gets, she's trapped in this cycle of hope and despair.

"Mom, I can't watch this anymore," I say, emotion thick in my voice. "I'm supposed to go off to college soon, but I'm starting to think maybe I⁠⁠—"

Her head snaps up, panic flashing in her eyes. "No, Nate. You can't do that. You've worked so hard, and you deserve this. You need to focus on your future, on college and football. You need to get out of here, build your own life."

"If I leave, who's going to protect you? Who's going to look out for Jake?" The thought of leaving them unprotected tears at my insides.

"I'll be okay. He wouldn't touch Jake." Though the first part is clearly a lie, I half-believe the second. Dad adores Jake, but I don't trust him around my little brother.

She forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes and touches my face.

"You don't need to worry about me or Jake or anything else, okay? You need to think about your future. You can't throw that away. I need you to get out of here and live your life, Nate. Okay?"

I study her face—the carefully concealed bruises, the deep stress lines, the dullness in her once-bright eyes. She's breaking, piece by piece, and nothing I say seems to matter.

"I'm not throwing anything away," I lie, trying to convince myself more than her. "But I can't leave you here with him."

"Nate," she whispers, cupping my cheek. "You've always been so strong. But don’t carry this weight. Promise me you won’t. Please. I can't bear the thought of you being stuck here. Please, Natey. Please, for me."

I swallow hard against the burning in my throat. She doesn’t understand what she’s trying to ask of me. I want to believe her, to trust that she'd be okay without me. But the truth sits like poison in my gut—she won't leave him.

If I go, who will save her next time?

Or the time after that?

"Mom," I manage, barely audible, "I can't."

She smiles through her tears.

"You can. And you will." She draws me close, our foreheads touching, before pulling me into another embrace, as if her arms could protect me from the shadows that have already claimed our family. I know it's not enough. It will never be enough. That knowledge cuts deeper than any physical wound.

The shift in Dad started around my seventh birthday. His eyes changed when they looked at me, disappointment clouding what used to be pride. I learned quickly to stay quiet around him, but as I grew older, silence became another form of betrayal—watching him destroy Mom piece by piece.