By: Liani Jarrett

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Nine months ago, I told her, he hit me.

Her decision to stay with him made me feel like

she didn't believe me, like she thought maybe I

deserved it or she was better than me, like

she thought he respected her more than me and

would never do her like that because she was

stronger than me and carried a badge and gun. 

I can't help but wonder how she's feeling today

now that his hand found its way to her face

the way it had mine in the past. I wonder what

she is thinking now that she had to defend herself

and her honor in front of my daughter as I've had

to do in the past.

I wonder how she feels now that she had to order him

to leave her home through tears, shaking hands

and shattered hope.

I struggle to not feel the warmth of I told you so, the

comfort of I'm not a liar, and the security of knowing she has

now seen that he is who his ex-wife and grown daughter warned

me, he was. 

I struggle to not celebrate through the tears I can't cry that my

daughter's father has shown her at her tender age of five who he

really is and to know that in her presence, I never had to utter a

negative word or Abracadabra to unveil the rabbit in the hat. 

I'm eagerly awaiting the call I'll probably never get where she

apologizes for not being loyal to the unspoken sisterhood of abused

women she took an oath to believe, serve, and protect. The one where

she seeks advice on how to put her broken life back together because

she wears shame she can't share with her closest family and friends.

I'm waiting the call where she sets the record straight on what

happened and inquiries about the mental safety of my daughter she

claimed she cared so much for knowing that she saw what she

saw in her home this morning. 

Nine months ago, I told her he hit me. I'm still numb by her silence.