The Last Time He Raised His Hand

Today, the man who fathered me asks me for money from time to time. I'm not sure why he thinks I'd be ready to sacrifice my money for him. I tried for many years to forgive him. The more I tried, the more he disappointed us. I'm not sure I've ever been able to forgive him, because he doesn't feel guilty. For him, he was a man of his generation. But what does that really mean? Nothing. Not even to his children. I've stopped trying to fix my mother, or to have a healthy relationship with them. She could have left so many times, and he could have been a better father, a better example to his sons. Sometimes I think about my mother, who lived what millions of women unfortunately live: the feeling of being afraid of the man you love. The fear. Not knowing how he's going to react. And what about sex? Honestly, how can someone consent to keep having it, or even share a simple, tender gesture, with someone who could kill them? I was exposed to so many violent scenes, including blood, that for years I couldn't eat anything red. That day, I decided I would never be a beaten woman. My relationship with men was a bit weird, because, as I explained in my previous echo, "Miss Independent," I will never accept being anyone's property: not my father's, not my brothers', not my boyfriend's, not my fiancé's. And in relationships, it's not difficult: at the first sign of violence, I will defend myself and leave. It's more that even some women and men of my generation think that as long as you're not killed, you can stay with someone violent. Not me. I'd rather stay single forever and live the way I want to live. And my brothers would never accept it either. The rare times I introduced a man to my family, my brothers would say the same sentence: "Lay one finger on our sister, and nobody will even find your DNA. PERIOD."