The Price of Silence: Growing Up with a Broken Father

“Don’t you dare talk back to me!” my father’s voice thundered, rattling the glass in the kitchen window. I froze, my hands trembling as I gripped the chipped mug, the only thing standing between me and his anger. Mom was already shrinking into the corner, eyes fixed on the linoleum, pretending she was somewhere else.

It was a Thursday night—just like every Thursday night. Dad would come home, smell of whiskey thick on his breath, the air charged with the threat of something breaking. Sometimes it was a dish. Sometimes it was me.

I was eight the first time he hit me. Not a slap, but a closed fist, quick and sharp across my shoulder. That night, I listened to the sirens wailing in the distance, hugging my knees in bed, wondering if anyone knew what was happening behind our blue-and-white house on Maple Drive in Cedar Falls, Iowa. But nobody came. Not then. Not ever.

Mom worked two jobs—waitressing at the diner and cleaning offices at night. She used to laugh, once, before the world ground her down. Now she just watched the clock, waiting for it all to be over. I’d hear her in the bathroom at 2 a.m., the faint clink of a bottle, the muffled sobs. I wanted to help her, to save her, but I was just a kid. So I became invisible instead. I learned how to slip through the rooms, silent, unnoticed, hoping that if I was careful enough, Dad would forget I existed.

School was my only escape, even though I was too scared to invite friends over. I wore long sleeves year-round, even in the sticky Midwest summers, making up stories about sensitive skin and bug bites. Mrs. Daniels, my fifth-grade teacher, asked me once if everything was okay at home. I gave her my best smile. “Everything’s fine, ma’am. Just tired.”

But sometimes, my mask slipped. Like the day I forgot to turn in my math homework. Dad found out. That night, he stormed into my room, reeking of Coors and sweat. “You want to end up like your mother? Worthless? Can’t even do your damn homework!” He grabbed my arm, squeezing so tight I thought the bones would snap. Mom tried to step between us, but he shoved her aside. I saw the defeat in her eyes—she knew she couldn’t win.

After he left, she sat on the edge of my bed, her hands shaking. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“No, Mom. It’s not.” But I didn’t believe it. Not really. I thought maybe if I was smarter, quieter, better, things would change. Maybe he’d love me. Maybe he’d love her.

Time passed in a blur of broken promises and broken things. My teenage years were a tightrope walk. I kept my grades up, worked at the grocery store after school, and tried to keep my head down. But the anger grew inside me, a knot so tight I felt like I’d choke on it. I started punching walls, just like he did. The first time I saw my fist bleed, I thought, This is how it starts.

But I wasn’t him. I swore I’d never be him.

The summer I turned seventeen, everything changed. Dad lost his job at the factory—downsizing, they said, but I knew the truth. He’d shown up drunk too many times, started fights, cursed at the manager. He spent his days in the recliner, TV blaring, a bottle in his hand. The house felt smaller, darker, like all the air had been sucked out.

One night, the shouting got worse. Plates shattered, Mom screamed, and something inside me snapped. I ran downstairs, stepped between them, and for the first time, I shouted back.

“Enough! Leave her alone!”

He turned to me, eyes wild, and swung. But this time, I ducked. This time, I pushed back. He stumbled, surprised, and I saw fear—real fear—in his face. For a moment, I was stronger than him.

Mom called 911. The police came. He was arrested. The next morning, the house was quiet. Too quiet. I didn’t sleep that night—neither did Mom. We sat at the kitchen table, sipping cold coffee, not saying a word. We didn’t know what came next.

The neighbors whispered. Some offered casseroles. Most just looked away. In Cedar Falls, you didn’t talk about things like this. You just kept your head down and hoped nobody noticed the bruises.

Dad was sentenced to mandatory counseling and probation. He moved in with his brother across town. I saw him once, at the grocery store. He looked small, hunched over, a shell of the man I remembered. He tried to catch my eye, but I walked away. I wasn’t ready.

Senior year, Mom and I tried to build something new. She quit drinking. I started therapy. We fought a lot—old habits die hard—but sometimes, we laughed, too. We painted the living room blue, opened the windows, let the sunlight in. I brought home friends for the first time. It didn’t feel like home yet, but it was a start.

College was my way out. I worked two jobs, took out loans, and moved to Des Moines. For the first time, I slept through the night without listening for footsteps or raised voices. I still woke up sometimes, heart racing, waiting for something bad to happen. But slowly, the fear faded.

Years later, I still carry the scars. Some days, I see my father’s face in the mirror, and I wonder if I’ll ever really be free. I visit Mom on weekends. We talk about the weather, her new job at the library, the way the town keeps changing. We never talk about Dad. Not really.

Sometimes, I think about forgiveness. About what it would mean to let go of the anger. Could I ever sit across from him, look him in the eye, and say, “I forgive you”? Would that set me free, or just open old wounds?

I know I’m not alone. There are thousands of kids like me, sitting at kitchen tables in small towns across America, praying for things to get better. I want to tell them it’s possible. That you can survive. That you can build a life out of broken pieces.

But some days, I still wonder: How much of who I am is because of him? And how much is in spite of him?