The Broken Spoon

“I knew — someday — I might need proof that what happened in our home wasn’t normal.”

I don’t remember every detail — time has a way of smudging the edges, especially when you’re surviving more than living. But I remember the moment.

My youngest was still a baby, barely onto purées. The older one was about two and a half. We were all seated at the dinner table when she started fussing about her drink — orange juice or water, something that had been poured for her. She didn’t want it.

He, flatly, said, “That’s all you get.”

She cried harder. A toddler tantrum — loud but typical. At some point, her drink spilled. According to him, she looked him straight in the eye as it happened, as if daring him. That’s how he told it later — as if her two-year-old frustration somehow warranted what came next.

He snapped.

He took her cup and hurled it across the kitchen. Then he grabbed her plate and threw that too — full force. The plate slammed into the fridge with such force that a plastic spoon on it snapped in half. One half of the spoon flew into the living room — a good eight meters away. The trajectory wasn’t even linear. If you picture a triangle: the table at one point, the fridge at the top, and the spoon landing all the way at the opposite corner in the living room. That’s how much force he packed into that single act of rage.

And then — silence. For two or three seconds, we just froze. Me, the toddler, the baby — completely still.

Then both of them started crying at once.

I was already sitting with them. I stayed put, trying to shush them, calm them, let my voice carry something soft into the chaos he left behind. Because he didn’t stay. He left the room — walked away from the mess, the fear, the crying, as if it were beneath him.

After a moment, I got up. I moved into the kitchen and started cleaning. I collected the cup, the food, the shattered moment. I walked into the living room and picked up the broken piece of the spoon. Then I came back and prepared new food for the toddler — not just because she needed to eat, but because it felt like the only thing I could control in that moment.

I still have a picture of that broken spoon. Not because I wanted to remember, but because I knew — someday — I might need proof. Proof that what happened in our home wasn’t normal. That what we felt in that frozen second wasn’t imagined. That even a baby could register the violence of a man who couldn’t control himself.