He got a large back payment from unemployment.
The one thing I insisted on? Fixing my van.
We caught up on his vehicle payments, too, and got his truck back.
He bought a new gun.
Another one.
No food. No diapers. But sure, buy another gun. That makes sense.
One day, my sister Lynn and I spent the afternoon together with the kids. We stopped at Subway. John had requested a very specific sandwich, something toasted, meatball, extra sauce, I don't even remember. I told him we'd grab it, but we also had to stop at Walmart before heading home.
"Or," I offered, "we could drop the food off to you first if you want to put the kids down for a nap."
Absolutely not. He refused.
Because remember... he wasn't a babysitter.
So we went to Walmart. It took maybe an hour. We dropped Lynn off at our parents' house. Then I headed home.
I walked in, sandwich in hand.
He was waiting.
He took one look at it and started screaming.
"You got me a COLD sandwich?! What the hell is wrong with you?! I told you to bring it straight home!"
I tried to explain. Calmly. I reminded him I told him we had errands. I reminded him it had been toasted. That it was warm when we got it.
But he didn't care.
Because I wasn't serving him.
He threw the sandwich at me.
It hit me in the mouth, splattered down my chest, warm sauce soaking my shirt.
Then he charged.
He slammed me against the wall, his hand around my throat.
Choking me.
I couldn't breathe. My feet left the ground. I was three inches off the floor, kicking, clawing, my vision going black. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. My arms were too weak. My body went limp.
And then—
My son.
My beautiful, brave little boy. just three and a half years old. started hitting his father.
His tiny fists pounding into the man hurting his mama.
"DON'T HURT MY MAMA!" he screamed. Over and over.
"I WON'T LET YOU HURT MY MAMA!"
And John?
He backhanded our son.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the house like a gunshot. Ashton hit the floor. His head slammed against the wall.
And that was it.
I snapped.
I saw red. Every ounce of fear turned to fire.
I kicked John in the balls. Punched him. Again. Again. Again.
He let go.
But I didn't stop.
I hit him until he was on the ground.
Then I grabbed my son. My daughter, still asleep, bundled in my arms.
I reached for the keys to my van, but he grabbed them first.
So I took my babies and stuffed them into a wagon.
And I left.
He followed.
At first, he screamed at me.
"I'll call the cops! I'll tell them you abused me!"
Then came the insults.
Then the manipulation.
"No one will believe you."
"If you hadn't pushed me…"
"I wouldn't have acted like that if you hadn't made me."
And then?
The apologies.
But by then, I'd already slipped down an alley. Crossed through strangers' yards. Pulled my kids through the cold and the snow, until I lost him.
We walked seven blocks in freezing weather.
My sister Marie and her husband lived nearby. They weren't home, but I knew where the spare key was. I let us in. Locked the door. Called her.
"I'm at your house," I said. "We're safe."
And she said the words I needed to hear:
"Stay as long as you need. You're welcome here."
Marie came home early from her date with her husband.
She walked through the door, saw me, and just… hugged me. No questions. No judgment. Just arms around me, holding all the broken pieces together.
Her husband joined her. He wrapped me up, too. And for the first time in days, I felt safe.
Right then, I knew, I could never bring John back.
Because he was going to kill someone.
The next time he got angry? It wouldn't stop at bruises. It wouldn't stop at screaming or shoving. He would kill me.
Or worse, one of our babies.
I ignored his calls. I ignored his texts. I told him he needed to leave. I stayed with Marie that night.
The next day, he wasn't at the house.
But that afternoon… he came back.
I called Marie. She called my dad, who was working just down the road.
John was already outside, screaming at me in the front yard.
Right in front of the neighbors.
Right in front of our kids.
When my dad pulled up, everything exploded.
John panicked.
He ran to the van, yanked open the door, grabbed our son, and slammed him back into the car seat, hard enough to bruise.
He screamed at him: "I don't want you!"
Then he ran around to the other side of the van, grabbed our two-year-old daughter Lina, and sprinted to the porch.
He sat down, cradling her, not in love, but like a man unraveling. Holding her to his chest. Mumbling to her. His eyes looked possessed. True evil.
Like something unhinged. Like something broken so deep it had teeth.
He wouldn't let her go.
I slumped against a tree. My knees wouldn't hold me anymore. Marie took care of Ashton, who was crying, sobbing, frantic.
Lina was screaming, too.
But John just sat there, stroking her hair like she was a pet, whispering things only she could hear, holding her throat too tight.
And she— she was inconsolable. I was the only one she wanted. The only one she trusted.
Then the cops showed up.
We lived two blocks from the station, so they were there fast, four of them.
One officer tried to get John to let go of our daughter. He wouldn't.
I could barely talk. I was shaking so hard I couldn't find words. Marie spoke to one officer. My dad to another. The cops took photos of Ashton. Deep bruises blooming across his little back from being slammed into the seat.
I ran inside, shaking, and somehow found the old separation papers, right on top. A miracle, honestly.
I swear, that was a God thing. Like He was saying, "I've got you now."
I handed the papers to the police. John's face changed.
He was pissed.
He tried everything. Said the papers weren't real. That they didn't count. That I was lying.
But the officers told him plainly:
I had legal custody.
The house was mine to live in.
And he needed to leave.
So he did.
A few hours later, his sister called.
She and her husband had picked him up. He was "so distressed."
She didn't say it out loud, but I knew.
She believed his version of the story.
They all did.
They bought the lies. The manipulation. The crocodile tears. The "poor me" performance.
But it didn't change how I felt about her.
We're still friends.
We still talk.
After John moved in with his sister, all he did was play video games. She gave him three simple rules:
Look for a job.
Bathe regularly.
Clean up and contribute around the house.
He didn't do any of them.
She had five kids of her own and didn't need a grown man acting like another one. Eventually, she kicked him out too.
He ended up staying with his uncle for a while, until he showed up wasted at his cousin's high school graduation. Couldn't even walk straight. His own family had had enough.
By then, most of them were done making excuses for him.
They were tired.
Just like I had been.
Funny enough? It only took three months for all of them to be tired of his crap.
It took me 5 years.