They sent her to bed without dinner.

She threw another tantrum.

"I won't go to bed. I won't."

She cries, thrashing her arms all around.

Her father has had enough.

"You will go to bed."

She looks him straight in the eye.

"No, I won't."

His arm twitches and the little girl flies across the room.

She looks up at him, tears in her eyes.

Her mother throws her in her room, and as the door closes she says

"We do this because we love you."

She is 4 years old.

20 years later, I still weave this sad tale.

The abuse, excuse me, love, continues.

She has learned that bruises are lovely,

chokeholds are hugs,

and that love hurts.

She stands in the hallway of her new home,

as her child throws a fit.

"I won't take a nap!"

She vaguely remembers this situation from her youth.

Her husband stands up, his arm moves, and she grabs his hand.

"Do not put a hand on him."

She says, her memories flooding back. 

This was never love.

He throws her across the room, and her head hits the wall.

She does not see what happens to her child.

As the black overwhelms her, she hears the words she grew up on.

"I do this because I love you."

She comes back, and runs to her child.

She curls him in her arms, and he struggles,

because the both of them have confused love with abuse,

and learned to love those who hurt them.

She pulls him closer and whispers in his ear.

"We are leaving. We deserve better. I'm doing this because I love you."