Loyalty is more important than love?

Between Loyalty and Pain

"Loyalty is more important than love."

I remember that sentence. It was one of the first lessons I learned.

Our step isn't that firmBecause we're not real soldiers.Though we wear the same hat and star,We wear it on our heads, too.

I grew up with these songs. My dad was a hero. He used to lull us to sleep with Animal Kingdom, and I knew all the animals by heart – which continent they were from, what they ate, what their cubs looked like, which mother was the most affectionate.

But why, dad, did you insult and humiliate me if you loved me? Why did you tell me, in my most sensitive years, that I was "the dumb Abril," like that unfortunate heroine from the Spanish series?

I didn’t look like a fool. I just looked through you and mom, because I wouldn't let you break me. That’s why I ran away, so you wouldn't know if I was alive or dead, so you'd walk around the city and wonder what happened to me.

You thought I wanted to get married. That I needed a man.

No. I just wanted freedom.

And then, many years later, why her? Why Milica? She, who loved and respected you since the moment she saw the world. You were her first support, bought her crib, carrier, golden earrings.

Why did you spit in her face on my 44th birthday?

Was it because she wanted the first piece of cake? Or because you had ten beers? Or because of those washed-up drunks you brought to drink at my expense, one of whom wanted to "grab" me right in front of you?

Oh, my dad...

"Milica, find some accommodation on Booking."

"But mom, you forgot your bag with documents at their place."

Police patrol. Six beers in me. I roll down the window and smile.

"Here you go, did I perhaps commit an offense?"

"No, no, just a routine check."

I silently pray they don’t ask for an alcohol test.

"Today is my birthday. I just came from my parents, but I realized I left my bag there."

"Happy birthday, ma'am, go ahead and get what you forgot."

We're sitting in the living room of some rented apartment. Hungry. I haven’t even tried my birthday cake.

"Now you can finally enjoy yourselves after you got rid of those who bother you."

My mother's voice. She means my youngest sister.

She, who came "to wish me a happy birthday," calling me a whore, a drug addict, in front of the children and my father.

She, who smashed bottles in the yard while I smiled at her frustration.

I watch her. I know. I feel. In her veins are both light and heavy drugs. In her mouth and body, the traces of men who used her like one uses things.

I could destroy her. With just one sentence. But I won’t. I smile. I stay silent. Tomorrow, when she wakes up hungover and torn, she will try to understand what happened. And me? I will be a thousand kilometers away, in a world where she cannot exist.

"Mom, can we finally eat something?"

Milica looks at me, tired.

I take out my phone and order food.

Two minutes later, I get a message:

"Sorry."

I stay silent. I know that in five days there will be another round. A new cake that will end up on the floor. New insults. New spit on our faces. New attempts to hold us back, to bind us with their poison.

But we leave. Again. And again.

Until one day we leave for good.

How many times have you asked yourself if love comes with conditions? Have you found an answer?

Let’s talk about it! How do you see the line between loyalty and control? Share in the comments – maybe your experience will help someone find their strength.

If this text touched you, share it with someone who might need it. Every story matters, every voice counts.

#Family #Memories #Trauma #Love #Control #PainfulTruth #Responsibility #LifeStories #WritingFromTheHeart #StrengthOfWomen #TruthWithoutCensorship