Eunice Fowler

My 6-year-old wrote a letter to Santa. His teacher mailed it to me. I opened it expecting Legos. A bike.

He wrote: “Dear Santa, I don’t want toys. I want my mom to stop crying at night. I want the man who yells at her to go away. He broke the kitchen table. He says bad words. Mommy says it’s our secret. But I don’t like secrets.”

I read it three times. My hands would not stop shaking.

I was a single mother earning $34,000 a year, and the man in the letter was my boyfriend. I had told myself it was not that bad. That sentence is hard for me to admit, even now, because I knew enough to be afraid and still kept trying to make the situation sound smaller.The story continues in the comments! If you don’t see the next part, change “Most Relevant” to “All Comments.”
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