Hi everyone, I’d like to share a bit of the backstory. I’m from Ukraine, but because of the war, my family moved to Switzerland, and everything I’m going to talk about happened here. I won’t be using any real names.

My mom is Ukrainian, and my dad is from Lebanon. He’s 14 years older than her. They met in Ukraine. At first, he kept chasing her, but she didn’t like him at all. Eventually, she gave in, they started dating, and then got married.

That’s how my older sister—let’s call her Kate—was born. Two years later, I was born. It was really hard for my mom to raise two kids. My dad was out partying all the time, cheating on her, and didn’t care about anything. She put up with it for a long time, but when she finally decided to leave him, she went to my grandma for help. My grandma told her, “You knew who you were marrying. That’s his culture. I can’t help you.” My mom felt completely powerless.

The only person who actually tried to help her was my aunt—her sister. But my dad strictly forbade my mom from talking to her, and they didn’t speak for about two years.

When I turned three, my younger brother was born—we’ll call him Jake. To us kids, our dad seemed like a good person. He made good money, and we really loved him. We always thought he worked all night, and during the day, mom would ask us to be quiet because he needed to rest. Now I realize he wasn’t working—he was cheating and partying in clubs.

In 2016, a fight happened that really messed with my mental health. Just so you know—my mom never converted to Islam, she stayed Christian. It was the first day of Ramadan, and we went to visit my grandparents (side note: my dad never came with us anywhere). My sister was sleeping over at our cousin’s house, so it was just me, my brother, and my mom.

My mom had forgotten it was Ramadan and had a bit of alcohol. When my dad came to pick us up, he realized she had been drinking. We could instantly tell something was wrong. When we got home, a huge fight broke out.

I remember it kind of blurry, but there’s one image that will never leave my mind: He was holding a heavy chair above my mom’s head, yelling that if she didn’t leave the house right now, he’d kill her with that same chair.

I was crying, holding my brother’s hand. Our mom left the house. I walked to the front door, still crying, and my dad said in a cold, angry voice: “You’ll never see her again. Go away.”

I kept crying—I was only 9, it was way too much to handle. I hugged my brother until he fell asleep in my arms. Later, the police showed up, along with my uncle.

My dad was rich, and in Ukraine, it’s sadly pretty common—he bribed the police. But my brother and I ran to our mom, and our uncle took us to his house, where our sister already was.

After that, we were constantly moving—from uncle to aunt, to grandma, and back again.

That was the only major fight I remember from our time in Ukraine, but after that, my parents got back together—which was a huge mistake. I’ll write the continuation a bit later… and oh, it’s going to be a long one.