When the Camera Clicked

The only thing staged was our smiles.

It Wasn’t a Black Eye
It was the way he ruined picture day.

Abuse doesn’t always show up as a bruise.
Sometimes, it sounds like “selfish bitch” and “fucking cunt” flying at you over the roar of the highway, while you blink fast to keep your mascara from running.
Because he’s mad
because you wanted family photos.

You laid out the outfits. Coordinated colors but not too matchy-matchy.
You packed snacks, bribery tools, just enough to keep them still for 20 minutes.
You dressed the kids, brushed tiny heads of hair, and in the two minutes you had left before chaos resumed, you powdered your face and slapped on lipstick - because moms deserve to be in the pictures too.

And then he walked in.

Scowling. Huffing. Fucking mad.
“We just did this last year.”
“They don’t have to be perfect.”
“Who the fuck cares?”

He’d rather be back in the bonus room, headset on, fully immersed in his virtual world.
And somehow it’s your fault for caring.

You’re always too much when you try to make a memory.
Too controlling. Too emotional. Too demanding.

The guilt comes thick, smothering the joy you tried to create.
And you sit there in the passenger seat, questioning if it was too much to ask for a damn photo of your family.

But no one sees that picture.
No one sees that version of abuse.

because the photos turned out beautiful