The Night the Fire Went Cold – And the Echo It Left Behind

One winter night, I remember sitting on the rooftop with my family—my three sisters, Mom, and Dad—gathered around a bonfire. The night was typical in the best way: warm, cozy, and filled with laughter. It felt safe. Familiar. Ours.

Then something shifted.

An argument broke out between Mom and Dad. Not entirely unusual, but still unsettling. I don’t recall what sparked it, only how the air changed. The giggles faded. The warmth of the fire seemed less comforting. Words grew sharp. Voices louder.

Mom was visibly upset, raising her voice. Dad mostly stayed silent—or murmured something I couldn’t quite hear. Then suddenly, as if possessed by a flicker of rage, he stood up. He was holding the stick he’d been using to tend the flames. And he raised it toward Mom—stopping just short of her head.

Mom stood up, gave the “go on, hit me” look to Dad and left. No one was hit. No one screamed. No one moved.

But something broke inside me that day. I just didn’t know it yet.

I buried the trauma of that moment deep inside me, too young to truly understand what had happened. I made peace with the idea that it was just a heated moment. That he hadn’t meant it. That my dad was still my hero—flawed, yes, but strong. Our angry young man.

Years passed.

Fast forward to 2018—nine years into my (love) marriage, and eighteen years into that relationship. A small disagreement escalated. Nothing major. But words turned to fury, and I didn’t like how he was speaking to me—so much anger, so much venom. I stood up. I wanted space. I needed to breathe.

He wouldn’t let me leave. He had to settle the score, there and then.

He grabbed me and pushed me back onto the bed. He loomed over me, yelling at the top of his voice.

And in that instant—I felt it again. For that moment, time stopped existing.

In that breathless space, I was both—
The little girl: scared, silent, sitting on a rooftop, watching her parents squabble as the warmth of a bonfire gave way to a creeping chill.
And
The grown woman: being pulled back, restrained, not just physically, but emotionally unravelled, stripped of breath and safety.

Two versions of me, separated by decades, suddenly collapsed into one single moment of helplessness.

I wasn’t sure what would happen next. But fate—or something kinder—intervened. A friend, who happened to be nearby, stepped in through the open door. I’ll never forget the sound of him calling my husband’s name. That one word broke the grip. Shattered the moment.

I stood up. Grabbed my keys. Walked out.

And I wish I hadn’t returned.

But fate has its logic. And I wasn’t ready—then—to say goodbye to the dream I had built. The one where love conquers all. The one where I wouldn’t repeat what I had seen as a child.

But I did. Life came full circle.

This blog is my place to admit it finally.
Not for sympathy.
Not for validation.
But for clarity.

Because silence never saved me. Writing might.