But why did you stay?

Was it the love you had for him—

or the love you thought he had for you?

Was it for the child

you believed was born of that love?

Staying after betrayal

is water to rot—

it lets the wound grow mould.

He grew bolder,

a repeat offender.

And still,

you stayed.

Was it because

you’d never seen your mother walk away?

Because hope, naïve and trembling,

whispered: He’ll change this time?

He bragged to his friends—

his conquests,

your humiliation

his favourite story to tell.

It thrilled him.

And you still stayed.

Was it because

you’d forgotten how to walk away?

Or because the world’s gaze

felt heavier than your grief—

“What would people say?”

Or maybe,

in the quiet between tears,

you convinced yourself:

“It never happened at all—

just a bad dream

I could wake from

if I loved hard enough.”