Lifestyle
It all begins somewhere, often within the confines of a home. I know firsthand what a mass shooter can resemble.
The first time I encountered him, I was just 13. The dawn had yet to break, and I was dressed in my track uniform. As I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch, I turned around and found him sitting at our round, pale-blue Formica table, engrossed in the newspaper and sipping coffee.
He was a hefty man, with wavy hair and a beard that sported both black and white strands. His bright blue eyes looked almost cartoonish, reminiscent of a department store Santa. He smiled at me and introduced himself. I was already late for practice, so I told him to clean up after himself before leaving.
My mother had met him the night before at the local bowling alley, a social hub in our small town filled with a bustling bar, nightly leagues, trophies, and even a video game arcade. Typically, we would join her for pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was unwell that night, leaving my mom to meet him alone. She brought him home, having been on the lookout for companionship for some time. Being a mother to three little girls without a job was a heavy burden. Her previous marriage had ended just a year earlier. After they met, he began spending the night in her room.
Weeks later, on Christmas Eve morning, I woke up to find both of them missing. My mother had left a note saying they had driven to Las Vegas for the night and asked me to watch my sisters. Far from being angry, I felt hopeful. She was lonely, had been drinking more, and laundry was piling up. He seemed to lift her spirits, even buying us all brand-new bicycles. I wanted this to work out for her, and for us.
On Christmas morning, I woke before dawn, and they still had not returned. The tree was glimmering with red and green lights, yet the cookies and milk sat untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and took some of her money from a cigar box. I rode the new banana-seat bike he had gifted me to the nearby 7-Eleven, where I bought presents for my sisters—records for them both. We had formed a little band called “Wonder,” with me playing the drums on silver pots while they handled tambourines and maracas. Our mom was our biggest fan. I also purchased a record for her, “You and Me Against the World” by Helen Reddy, hoping to convey my support for her.
As I rode home, the sun began to rise. I wrapped the gifts and set them under the tree, then made pancakes just like she used to do. My sisters woke up soon after to open their gifts, and despite the meager haul, they didn’t complain. We played our records and sang together, sharing a joyful Christmas morning. The absence of our audience was the only shadow over the day.
My mother called hours later, asking if I could find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner. After searching the Yellow Pages, I booked a table at a Chinese restaurant in the next town. It was there that my mother showed us her new diamond ring, announcing their engagement. From that day onward, he became a constant fixture in our lives, and changes came swiftly.
I had never liked meat; even as a child, I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite dish. She gave me the sides—mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese—but he insisted I eat the meatloaf. I refused, and while my mother defended me, he was now the man of the house. I wasn’t allowed to leave the table until I complied. I fell asleep at the table, and when my mother woke me the next morning, she sported a black eye. I never witnessed him strike her, but the signs were there.
He bought my mother a flashy red Lotus sports car with a stick shift, and soon they took another trip to Vegas, leaving us behind. I took the car keys and drove my sisters to school in the new Lotus, teaching myself how to handle the stick shift poorly. I crashed into a tree in the school parking lot, drawing stares from classmates and teachers. The car was towed away, and my mother was called back from Vegas. She returned with bruises and injuries, and he walked past me without a word. She looked at me and said, “I took it for you.”
The blame for the accident weighed heavily on me. My mother began drinking more, and so did he. Fights became more frequent, and we found ourselves in the role of reluctant spectators. When food ran low, we would take taxis to the grocery store with my mother’s checkbook, loading up on snacks and treats. I learned to forge her signature without anyone saying a word about it.
Life settled into a grim routine. Whenever their fights erupted downstairs, my sisters would come to my room, and we would drown out the chaos with music. I figured out how to barricade my bedroom door, and I learned to use concealer to hide her bruises. Sometimes, an ambulance would arrive, and she would walk the dogs wearing sunglasses and large hats to cover her injuries.
Everyone knew, but no one intervened. Domestic violence was tolerated as a private issue.
There were brief moments of respite; my mother would sometimes wake us in the middle of the night, urging us to pack our bags. We would stay in hotels, feeling like spies or escapees. We ordered food and watched television, hoping we wouldn’t be found. But eventually, he would arrive with flowers, and we would be lured back home. Who could resist Disneyland or having the first swimming pool on the block?
Though my mother despised guns, I kept a butcher knife under my pillow for protection. At 16, I used it one night when the fighting downstairs escalated. I called 911 and went downstairs to find him hunched over her. In that moment, I put the knife to the back of his neck, halting the violence. The ambulance took her away, and the police took him. We found refuge in a neighbor’s backyard, sleeping on their lawn furniture, covered with blankets.
Weeks later, I was summoned from my English class. My mother was waiting for me at school on Halloween. Dressed as a vampire, I saw her looking frail and bandaged after her hospital stay. She had paid his bail and pleaded with me to give him another chance.
I broke my own heart that day, choosing not to return home. My middle sister ran away and was sent away to a boarding school by our father. My youngest sister, only six, cried herself to sleep, and our family began to splinter. They eventually moved to a new house far from our previous life.
The last time I saw him, I was 16. When I arrived to collect my belongings, he stepped outside, looking thinner and calm, holding a shotgun. It was a moment of finality; I was leaving for good, and his presence signified that danger was still very much alive. My sister and mother remained in that house.
Everyone knew. Neighbors, teachers, friends, and family—everyone was aware. Yet no one took action.
I never confronted him directly about the abuse or told him the pain he inflicted on my sisters and me could never be undone. A few years later, my mother finally left him, but her life ended far too soon.
He never murdered us, but had he picked up a gun and ended our lives, no one would have been surprised. They’d have said he was a violent man—everyone knew.
But in our society, we tend to believe we are safe from someone who “only” beats their partner. If he had taken a semi-automatic weapon and shot innocent people in public, again, no one would be shocked.
However, domestic violence is no longer confined to one house. It has spilled into public spaces. According to Everytown for Gun Safety, most mass shooters in the U.S. have histories of domestic violence or have harmed family members during their attacks.
Someone out there knows the next potential mass shooter. Someone is being blamed, yelled at, or beaten. They might want to believe he has changed, thinking love means giving him another chance—even if it means risking their lives.
No longer can we turn a blind eye to the signs of domestic violence. We must acknowledge that it serves as a warning for potential future harm to others.
The reality is that violent men do not simply appear with guns; they exhibit warning signs long before tragedy strikes. Abused women and children are the canaries in the coal mine, alerting us to a danger that starts at home.
Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.
Summary:
In a poignant narrative, Jessica Harper reflects on her traumatic childhood marked by domestic violence, highlighting the signs that often go unnoticed in families. Her experiences reveal the harsh realities of living with an abusive stepfather and the societal indifference towards domestic violence. The piece emphasizes the importance of recognizing warning signs that can lead to broader public tragedies, urging readers to acknowledge the serious implications of domestic abuse and the need for intervention.