Chapter 37

Chapter 37
Rafael Pov

The floor was cold against my back, my head throbbed with every heartbeat, a reminder of the bottle I emptied before dawn.

I hadn’t moved since she stepped over me in the night. I felt her presence before I heard her soft footsteps and the faint rustle of her nightgown.

I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep, because what right did I have to look at her? To speak? To beg?

And when she whispered, I hate you. It didn’t sound like hate. It sounded like the kind of pain that doesn’t heal, the kind I did into her with my own hands.

I wanted to reach for her then, to pull her down beside me and swear I will never touch her again in anger, but I couldn’t. Blood still stained my hands, and my knuckles had split open from punching the wall until the plaster cracked.

I lost count of how many times I told myself I will stop. That I will become better and be the man she deserved instead of the monster I was. But the rage lived in me always waiting for a trigger.

She looked so small in that bathroom, trembling with blood running pink down her arm where I grabbed her too hard. I saw the fear in her eyes—my wife was afraid of me, and something inside me had shattered.

I didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but I couldn’t leave. So I stayed outside her door like a dog waiting for treats, hoping she would step out and see something worth saving.

Hoping she would scream at me, hit me or anything because silence was worse. It meant she was done. That I finally pushed her too far.

Just like my father did to my mom.

The first time I saw my father hit my mother, I was six. I remember Mama was in the kitchen, humming her favorite song while she stirred the food.

I was on the floor with my toy soldiers, lining them up for battle when the front door slammed and Pápa came in drunk. His shirt was untucked, his eyes red.

Mama turned, smiling at first, like she always did. Like love could fix what the bottle broke.

“Rafaelito, ven,” she called to me softly. (Come here.)

I froze My legs had gone numb.

He didn’t say a word, just grabbed her wrist and twisted. The spoon clattered to the floor. She didn’t scream—just looked at him with those wide, dark eyes, pleading without words.

Then his hand came down and landed a hard slap that echoed around the house. I dropped my soldier toys in fear.

Mama’s head snapped to the side, blood coating her split lip. She didn’t cry—she never cried in front of him — but her hand flew to her mouth, and I saw her fingers tremble.

I ran to her my voice came out small. “Pápa, no.”

He looked down at me like he had forgotten I existed. His eyes were glassy and empty. Then he let out a low, bitter laugh. “Niño,” he slurred. “This is how men fix things.”

He let go of her wrist, and she stumbled back, caught herself on the counter. Her eyes met mine, and she curved her lips into a small, sad smile.

That night, she tucked me into bed with bruised knuckles and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She kissed my forehead and whispered, “Your father loves us. He just forgets how to show it.”

I believed her—I believed her for years.

Every time he came home late and started yelling, I hid under the table with my hands over my ears while she took the hits meant for both of us.

I learned the rules quickly. Don’t talk back,don’t cry and don’t make him angry.

If you love someone, sometimes you hurt them, and that’s just how it is.

When I was twelve, he broke her arm. She told the doctor she fell down the stairs. I watched her lie with a smile while I stood in the hallway clutching the rosary she had given me. I prayed to a God I wasn’t sure if He was listening.

When I was fifteen, I got big enough to stand between them. The first time I pushed him back, he laughed and hit me instead. I took every punch, every curse, every bottle thrown at my head. Because at least he was hitting me and not her.

She died when I was seventeen. They said it was a heart attack.Too many years of holding everything together with shaking hands and quiet prayers.

I found her in the kitchen, collapsed beside the stove. The rosary was still wrapped around her fingers.

Pápa didn’t come to the funeral me and my brothers buried her alone.

After that, I left. Took what little money she had hidden in the flour tin and got on a bus without looking back. I told myself I will be different. That I will never lay a hand on anyone I loved.

But the rage followed me.

I saw it in the way I clenched my jaw when someone looked at me wrong. In the way my hands curled into fists when I felt cornered. In the way I wanted to hurt, to control, to make the world bend before it broke me again.

When I met Raelyn at her flower shop, she looked at me like I was whole, not a boy still bleeding from wounds no one could see.

I swore I would never touch her like he touched Mama. I swore it on my mother’s grave.

But last night, when she flinched from me—when I saw the bruises on her wrists like purple flowers—I saw him in the mirror.

I saw the monster I had become, and I hated it.

I stayed on the floor outside her door because I didn’t trust myself to stand. Because if I walked away, I might never come back. And if I came too close, I might destroy the last good thing I had left.

So I waited.

I wait, praying I’m strong enough to be the man she deserves.

Or at least weak enough to let her go.