I’m 22F , the oldest among my siblings, and I’ve always known that my dad is a strict and stubborn man. He can be funny and wise when things are calm, but his anger? It changes everything. He’s not physically abusive toward us, but when he’s angry, his words are sharp and his presence becomes heavy. Still, I didn’t realize just how much my mom had shielded us from his darker side until I got older.
My mom is the kind of woman who avoids conflict to protect the peace. She stays quiet when he’s yelling, swallows his harsh words, and makes sure our childhood was safe from the chaos she carried on her own. I used to think she was being too cautious , planning her words so carefully before talking to him , but now I know: that wasn’t caution. That was survival.
Today, something happened that left me completely shaken.
My dad was scheduled to drive some relatives to another city tomorrow. There was a small misunderstanding during a phone call with the woman organizing the trip—she made a comment that my dad’s planned departure time was too early, and then she ended the call quickly, right as my mom tried to ask if there was another time she preferred. It was awkward, but small. At least, to me.
To my dad? It was enough to make him explode.
He started yelling at my mom—calling her names like “stupid” and “unreliable,” accusing her of speaking without thinking. Then I heard it. A slap.
And then… another one.
My heart dropped.
I was in my room with one of my younger sisters (19), but she had earbuds in and didn’t hear. I jumped up instantly, and in that moment, I was determined to fight him if he had touched her. I ran straight to the hallway, ready to confront him but before I even reached their door, I saw my mom outside, near the car, cleaning it. So I never entered the room. I never saw my dad. I never confronted him. But I also never got to know for sure what happened in those seconds.
I didn’t know what should i do , do go in the room and face him or i go to mom and ask her or i just go back to my room . I was shaking.
I went outside.
I studied my mom’s face, trying to read her—searching for tears, marks, or something. But she was calm. Maybe a little annoyed. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, “Did he hit you?” So I just asked, “What was that about?” She murmured that it was the woman’s fault and went silent and continued cleaning. I returned to my room, trembling, and my sister (who had seen me react earlier) asked what happened. I told her, honestly, that I wasn’t sure what I heard—but that I was terrified he had hit her.
Later, my mom came into the room and told us the story. She said that my dad was so angry he was slapping himself. Not her. She wasn’t casual when she told us this—she was clearly angry at the woman who had caused the misunderstanding. She was venting about how that woman made things worse, how unclear she was about the time, and how that led to the whole blow-up.
And that’s the part that breaks me the most.
Hearing her complain so clearly about the woman but not even mentioning my dad’s overreaction makes me feel like she’s unable to blame him. Maybe out of fear. Maybe because she’s trying to protect us from hating him. Maybe because she still wants to believe he’s a good man deep down. I don’t know.
I want to believe her when she says he didn’t hit her. Part of me does. But part of me still doubts. She’s hidden her pain before. She’s covered for him before. And I know that even if it was only him hitting himself, his rage , his cruel words, his emotional violence was still very real so wrong. And it scared me.
I didn’t eat. I couldn’t breathe properly. The air has felt heavy ever since. My dad left the house after that, and my mom just continued doing house chores like nothing happened maybe to distract herself or maybe it’s her way to calm herself.
But I still hear those sounds in my head . And I don’t know if I’ll ever forget them.
I don’t hate my dad. He’s been a good father to us in many ways. But I know he hasn’t always been a good husband. And today, something in me cracked. A piece of the respect I had for him has dimmed.
P.S.
This is the first time I’ve ever witnessed something that intense between them. Growing up, I only saw my dad make harsh comments, criticize my mom, or blame her when he was angry—but never anything physical or loud enough to shake me like today did. And now, I keep wondering: was there worse? Did things like this happen before—maybe even worse—and my mom just hid it so well that we never knew?
It makes me think about those times when I’d ask her to talk to my dad about something I wanted, and she’d joke, “He’s your father too—go tell him yourself. If I say it, he’ll just say no.” I never thought much of it back then. But now… I’m rethinking everything. And it makes me feel sick. I’m heartbroken imagining what my mom might’ve gone through in all those 23 years of marriage—what she had to swallow, what she endured, just so my siblings and I could live a happy, safe, pink-tinted childhood.
I’m posting this here because I don’t know what else to do. I can’t talk about this openly with anyone in my family, and I needed a space to just… breathe. To say what I couldn’t say out loud. Thanks if you read this far.
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Backup of the post’s body: I’m 22F , the oldest among my siblings, and I’ve always known that my dad is a strict and stubborn man. He can be funny and wise when things are calm, but his anger? It changes everything. He’s not physically abusive toward us, but when he’s angry, his words are sharp and his presence becomes heavy. Still, I didn’t realize just how much my mom had shielded us from his darker side until I got older.
My mom is the kind of woman who avoids conflict to protect the peace. She stays quiet when he’s yelling, swallows his harsh words, and makes sure our childhood was safe from the chaos she carried on her own. I used to think she was being too cautious , planning her words so carefully before talking to him , but now I know: that wasn’t caution. That was survival.
Today, something happened that left me completely shaken.
My dad was scheduled to drive some relatives to another city tomorrow. There was a small misunderstanding during a phone call with the woman organizing the trip—she made a comment that my dad’s planned departure time was too early, and then she ended the call quickly, right as my mom tried to ask if there was another time she preferred. It was awkward, but small. At least, to me.
To my dad? It was enough to make him explode.
He started yelling at my mom—calling her names like “stupid” and “unreliable,” accusing her of speaking without thinking. Then I heard it. A slap.
And then… another one.
My heart dropped.
I was in my room with one of my younger sisters (19), but she had earbuds in and didn’t hear. I jumped up instantly, and in that moment, I was determined to fight him if he had touched her. I ran straight to the hallway, ready to confront him but before I even reached their door, I saw my mom outside, near the car, cleaning it. So I never entered the room. I never saw my dad. I never confronted him. But I also never got to know for sure what happened in those seconds.
I didn’t know what should i do , do go in the room and face him or i go to mom and ask her or i just go back to my room . I was shaking.
I went outside.
I studied my mom’s face, trying to read her—searching for tears, marks, or something. But she was calm. Maybe a little annoyed. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, “Did he hit you?” So I just asked, “What was that about?” She murmured that it was the woman’s fault and went silent and continued cleaning. I returned to my room, trembling, and my sister (who had seen me react earlier) asked what happened. I told her, honestly, that I wasn’t sure what I heard—but that I was terrified he had hit her.
Later, my mom came into the room and told us the story. She said that my dad was so angry he was slapping himself. Not her. She wasn’t casual when she told us this—she was clearly angry at the woman who had caused the misunderstanding. She was venting about how that woman made things worse, how unclear she was about the time, and how that led to the whole blow-up.
And that’s the part that breaks me the most.
Hearing her complain so clearly about the woman but not even mentioning my dad’s overreaction makes me feel like she’s unable to blame him. Maybe out of fear. Maybe because she’s trying to protect us from hating him. Maybe because she still wants to believe he’s a good man deep down. I don’t know.
I want to believe her when she says he didn’t hit her. Part of me does. But part of me still doubts. She’s hidden her pain before. She’s covered for him before. And I know that even if it was only him hitting himself, his rage , his cruel words, his emotional violence was still very real so wrong. And it scared me.
I didn’t eat. I couldn’t breathe properly. The air has felt heavy ever since. My dad left the house after that, and my mom just continued doing house chores like nothing happened maybe to distract herself or maybe it’s her way to calm herself.
But I still hear those sounds in my head . And I don’t know if I’ll ever forget them.
I don’t hate my dad. He’s been a good father to us in many ways. But I know he hasn’t always been a good husband. And today, something in me cracked. A piece of the respect I had for him has dimmed.
P.S.
This is the first time I’ve ever witnessed something that intense between them. Growing up, I only saw my dad make harsh comments, criticize my mom, or blame her when he was angry—but never anything physical or loud enough to shake me like today did. And now, I keep wondering: was there worse? Did things like this happen before—maybe even worse—and my mom just hid it so well that we never knew?
It makes me think about those times when I’d ask her to talk to my dad about something I wanted, and she’d joke, “He’s your father too—go tell him yourself. If I say it, he’ll just say no.” I never thought much of it back then. But now… I’m rethinking everything. And it makes me feel sick. I’m heartbroken imagining what my mom might’ve gone through in all those 23 years of marriage—what she had to swallow, what she endured, just so my siblings and I could live a happy, safe, pink-tinted childhood.
I’m posting this here because I don’t know what else to do. I can’t talk about this openly with anyone in my family, and I needed a space to just… breathe. To say what I couldn’t say out loud. Thanks if you read this far.
I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.