The Knife You Don’t See

My dad once told me a story about how my mom held a knife to his throat.
He’d said he was going to leave her.
She didn’t like that.
So she threatened to kill him.

What was the result of that?

Well—me, first of all.
And then two brothers. One of them died in war.
The other never got a real shot at life.

Dad took jobs in places he never wanted to live.
Doing things he never wanted to do.
He never surfed the beaches he dreamed about.
Never bought the cabin in the woods he wanted to fix up.
Never got to live life his own way.

He walked on eggshells the rest of his life.
So she wouldn’t get upset.
So she wouldn’t raise another knife.

And then she had her accident.
In and out of hospitals, nursing homes, facilities.
And Dad became the caretaker.
For a woman who once threatened his life.
For a marriage he never really belonged to.
For a family he could never fully hold together.

He stayed.
Because that’s what “good men” do.

But what if he hadn’t?
What if, the night she held that knife to his throat, he waited until she fell asleep and just… left?

Would that have saved him?

Instead, the result was this:

A dead son.
A suicidal son.
A son still trying to figure out how to live.

And a man who spent his life not dying,
but never really living.

Maybe the knife would’ve been quicker.
Maybe being scared of her every day after
was worse.

Because doing what you’re supposed to do—
what’s safe, what’s approved—
just takes that knife, bends you over,
and instead of slashing your throat,
it stabs at your insides.

You bleed internally.
And you die slower that way.