To protect my daughter, I locked her away while my son’s rage consumed him. His teeth sank into my skin, drawing blood, and I pleaded for it to stop. But it was already too late—he wasn’t my boy in those moments. As I fell to the floor, bruised and broken, I felt like a victim of abuse, only it was my child. Then came the tears, the kisses, and the haunting plea to “fix it.” I didn’t blame him. I only felt utterly broken.
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