The teacher called me to the school and silently handed me a drawing by my 7-year-old daughter. I looked at it—and turned pale. The picture showed our family with the caption: “Daddy says to Mommy…”
The teacher called last night and briefly said, “Come to school tomorrow. We need to talk.” No explanations, no details. I couldn’t sleep all night, going over possible reasons in my head. Could it be that my daughter got into a fight? Is she doing poorly in school? Or is she sick?
In the morning, as I walked down the school corridor, I found it harder to breathe with each step. It was as if deep down I already knew that I wasn’t going to hear anything good.
In the office, the teacher greeted me in silence. No usual greetings, no smiles. She simply laid a folded sheet of paper in front of me. A child’s drawing. I unfolded it and at first couldn’t understand what I was seeing.
Our home. Three figures—Daddy, Mommy, girl. Daddy was drawn big, with a red face and an open mouth. I was small, bent over, with blue tears on my face. My daughter was tiny, hiding under the table, covering her ears with her hands.
And above, in a child’s handwriting, it said: “Daddy says bad words to Mommy.”
My eyes went dark. I couldn’t take my eyes off the drawing. Off the little figure under the table. Off my drawn tears.
The teacher quietly asked, “How long has this been happening?”
I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know what to say. My throat tightened so much that I couldn’t get a word out. I always thought my daughter didn’t hear it. That she was asleep when my husband started shouting. That she was too young to understand. That I was protecting her by closing the door to her room.
Turns out, no. She heard everything. Saw everything. And stayed silent.
The teacher continued gently, “She drew this during a lesson when we were talking about family. Other children drew celebrations, walks, games. But she—this. Then she came up to me and quietly asked, ‘Is it normal? For Daddy to shout at Mommy?’ I didn’t know what to say.”
I sat there feeling everything inside crumble. For years, I told myself I was enduring for the child. That she needed a complete family. That Daddy loved her, he just couldn’t get along with me. That she was growing up happy because I was trying to create a normal life for her.
But she was drawing herself under the table with her ears covered.
I recalled how sometimes I would find my daughter quiet, thoughtful. I would ask if everything was okay. She’d nod and run off to play. Now I understood—she simply didn’t know how to say it. Or was afraid. Or thought that’s how it was supposed to be.
That evening, there was another argument. My husband came home irritated, started nitpicking, raising his voice. I stood in the kitchen and suddenly heard quiet footsteps behind the door. I turned around—my daughter was standing in the hallway in her pajamas, looking at us with big frightened eyes.
At that moment, I realized: that’s it. Enough. I can no longer tell myself that I’m enduring for her. Because I’m not protecting her. I’m breaking her.
The next day I called my mom. Asked her to come and take us for a while. She didn’t ask questions, she just came. We packed our things while my husband was at work. Only the essentials—clothes, documents, my daughter’s toys.
As we left, I left a note on the table: “We’re leaving. Don’t try to find us.”
My daughter sat quietly in the car, clutching her favorite toy. I turned to her and asked, “Are you scared?”
She shook her head. Then quietly said, “Mom, will you stop crying now?”
I couldn’t hold back. Tears flowed on their own. I hugged her and whispered, “Never again.”
Three months have passed. We live with my mom, I’m arranging the divorce. My daughter started seeing a child psychologist—the teacher insisted. The psychologist said the child stayed silent for a long time because she thought she was protecting me. That if she told someone, it would make things worse for me.
A seven-year-old child thought she needed to protect her adult mother. From her own father.
Recently, my daughter drew again. The psychologist asked her to draw a family. This time it was just us, her grandma, the sun, and flowers. Daddy wasn’t there. When I asked why, my daughter just shrugged: “He’s not with us.”
Sometimes I wonder: how many children stay silent because they think it’s right? How many of them draw themselves under the table, while parents assure themselves they’re doing everything for them? And when do we finally understand that “enduring for the sake of the children” is not protection, but betrayal? What would you do in my place?
******
The teacher called last night and said only one thing: “Please come to the school tomorrow. We need to talk urgently.” No explanation. I didn’t sleep all night, running through possible reasons in my head. Maybe my daughter got into a fight? Or maybe she’s doing poorly in school?
As I walked down the school hallway, I noticed that with every step it became harder to breathe, as if somewhere inside I already knew — she wouldn’t say anything good. In the classroom, the teacher didn’t explain anything. She just silently placed a folded sheet of paper in front of me. It was a drawing by my eight-year-old daughter. I unfolded it, glanced over it… and froze when I saw the words at the top: “Daddy says to Mommy…” At that moment, my vision went dark…
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