Months later, Geneve moved into a quiet apartment in the city and started seeing a therapist to process the trauma. She still flinches at loud noises, but she is starting to laugh again, and that sound is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
I didn’t come out of this unchanged either. I learned that abuse doesn’t always start with a punch; it starts when a family decides to look the other way.
I don’t regret the risk I took to save my sister. The truth sometimes requires someone to walk into the flames to bring it back out.
I still wonder what is more destructive in the end: the hand that strikes the blow or the love that chooses to stay blind to the pain?
THE END.
