My mother thought if she loved my father enough, he would change. He didn’t. Instead, I watched my father love my mother to the best of his broken abilities. I watched my mother become less of a woman, and I watched my heart break into millions of little pieces as my mother would clean up the glass from one of my Dad’s anger fits or hold an ice pack to a broken nose; deep down I knew this wasn’t real love or healthy. Flash forward fifteen years later. I am raising two girls and one precious boy. My fifteen year old …
