I’m going to write much more than is here right now, as it deserves much more information. I’ll also include some information I received from Women’s Aid about this, but, for now, I just want to address the subject…
LINK: Information and support regarding children and young people, via Women’s Aid
For many parents in abusive relationships, leaving isn’t a simple act of escape, it’s a calculation of safety. Not just their own, but their child’s. Abuse creates a world where every decision feels like a risk, and sometimes the safest option is the one that looks strange from the outside.
In my case, my life was awful, but my son was thriving at school. He was happy, settled, and surrounded by stability and friends. I didn’t want to disrupt that. I didn’t want to pull him out of the one part of his world that was safe. I also kept him away from the man I was with (Arthur) as much as possible, because I knew exactly how bad it was. For example, I’d get him in bed before Arthur got home from work (if he even turned up) and I’d make sure my son stayed at his dad’s house a bit longer each weekend if I knew Arthur would be around. Protecting him became the centre of every choice I made.
People imagine leaving as a single moment, but for many of us, it’s a long, quiet plan. In my head, I had already mapped out our escape. I would let my son finish junior school (1.5 years away when I made the decision), keep him safe and untouched by the chaos, and then we would run. He’d have been moving schools then anyway, so wasn’t the huge upheaval it would have been immediately. That was my version of safety. That was my version of leaving.
I vividly remember where I was stood when I made that decision, too. Arthur had driven me to breaking point, ending with me collapsing on the floor. I’d pulled myself up and was leaning on the black bookcase in my front room, facing away from the room’s main door. I was utterly broken and quite frankly, a feral mess, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt, right then, that we had to leave.
I’ve written about the incident that led to the above decision, here: “I’ll Call My Parents”.
It might sound strange to someone who hasn’t lived it, but abuse forces you to make decisions inside a distorted reality. You weigh danger differently. You protect your child in the ways that feel possible. And sometimes that means staying until the moment you know you can leave without putting them at greater risk.
When you live with someone who controls your time, your reactions and your peace, leaving isn’t a simple act of walking away. It becomes a calculation of safety, a careful attempt to get out without triggering something worse first. People on the outside often see staying as weakness, but inside abuse, it isn’t weakness, it’s survival.
Sometimes, staying takes more strength, more strategy, and more courage than anyone could ever imagine.
This part of domestic abuse is rarely talked about, but it’s real and it’s common. Staying doesn’t mean the person didn’t recognise the abuse. It means they likely (eventually) saw all of it, every risk, every escalation, every consequence, and they were trying to protect the person they loved most. In situations like this, staying isn’t giving in. It’s holding on until you can leave safely.
