Description
I am a normal teenager. At least, I was: fourteen years old, divorced parents, three best friends, school. Until that day. The day my mom met Michel, her new boyfriend. At first, their love story seemed like a fairy tale. But quickly, my mom started to change. She became secretive, no longer dressed like before, wore makeup all the time (even for cleaning!) and always seemed on edge.
Distrustful, jealous, controlling. My mom's Prince Charming was far from those I had known in my childhood books. Over time, insults became threats, then slaps, and, finally, blows. My mom no longer went out, she lied to her friends, no longer answered the phone. Despite my pain and my revolt, the law of silence seemed stronger than anything. Until that terrible night when I finally found the courage to call for help.
Domestic violence doesn't only hurt those who experience it, but also those who witness it, most often children and adolescents. One might think that due to the seriousness of the situation and the diversity of communication networks, it has become easy to confide, to report. But that's without counting the shame, guilt, and fear that increasingly transform the family home into a prison.
