*This piece contains references to domestic violence, spiritual abuse, and trauma. Reader discretion is advised, especially for survivors of abuse. If you or someone you know is in danger, please seek support from a local crisis center or professional resource.

You wore your cross like a crown,

but never carried it.

Just draped it over bruises you never earned—

the ones you claimed I gave you

when it was your hands,

your fists,

your silence sharpened to cut.

You cried on Sunday mornings

and cursed me Sunday night.

Told the church I was cold, controlling,

spiritually distant—

while I was nursing bite marks

and hiding ripped shirts from our children.

You performed holiness

with trembling lips and Scripture memorized—

a highlight reel of redemption

you never lived.

I begged you to stay in counseling.

You said God had already healed you.

I asked for honesty.

You quoted Paul.

Told me,

"A real man leads."

Then mocked me for being broken.

I told the group what happened—

how you'd hit me,

how you slapped our son across the face.

They asked what we did to deserve it.

It’s not abuse.

“She’s a godly woman,”

they said.

“She wouldn’t do that.”

And I felt the floor of my faith

crack beneath me.

Because what is God to a man

no one believes?

What is scripture

when it’s been weaponized

to justify the open wounds

you said were love?

You taught me how the Church

protects its daughters—

even the ones who kill from behind stained glass.

You were a false prophet.

Preaching from pulpits of pity,

twisting theology into alibis.

Crying to pastors while I sat in silence,

afraid to speak truth

in a room that only heard yours.

But God was never fooled.

Not the real one.

Not the quiet One I speak to now,

beneath blankets at 2 a.m.,

while the boys sleep soundly

for the first time in years.

That God doesn’t care about appearances.

He didn’t ask what I did to deserve it.

He didn’t tell me to go back.

He didn’t say

“forgive and forget.”

He wept.

He stayed.

And now,

I do too.

Still broken,

but no longer silent.

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Inherited Ruin