That sadness quickly turned into rage when I met my son’s girlfriend. She had bruises on her wrists, a constant look of fear on her face, and a demeanor that screamed “I’m trapped”. I couldn’t understand how someone could be so blind to the signs of domestic abuse. She didn’t even flinch when my son raised his voice, let alone when he put his hands on her. My anger boiled over as I realized the irony of the situation – here I was, trying to help someone escape from an abusive relationship, while my own flesh and blood was perpetuating the cycle. The irony turned to horror when I realized that my son’s girlfriend wasn’t the only victim in the house.
