My mother clung to my small palm as if her life depended on it while staring up at my father, who was screaming furiously, shaking his clenched fists in front of him. “You never do anything right!” he yelled. As my mother backed up shakily, she ran right into the dining table, bringing me along with her in a fierce crash. I stared doe-eyed at my father then back at my mother. Why is daddy so mad at mommy? His screams became louder and his movements more forceful as he thrust his hand forward towards my mother's throat. Terrified, I let go of my mother's hand, running towards the bedroom. I pulled the covers over my head and wrapped my arms over my shaking legs, rocking myself back and forth. Tears began streaming down my face, but I was too afraid to make any noise. “Please stop!” I heard my mother's frail voice yell out. Slap! The crack of skin against skin echoed through the walls. That was when I heard my mother call out for me. I froze, my body still shielded under the blanket. “Help me!” I heard her scream again. I started to cry even harder, yet my body remained paralyzed at the corner of the bed. Her incessant cries for my help could be heard through the breaking glass and clinking furniture. After what seemed several hours, the chaos in the other room subsided. I stayed put even though it started to feel humid under the blanket and I was breathing in hot air. I knew my mother entered the room when I felt the bed dip. Whimpers racketed from her body. I peeked out of the covers and crawled over to her side, obediently. She looked down at me, a tear spilling from her eye. “Why didn't you do anything,” she says in her mother tongue. I cast my eyes downward and shrug. I had nothing to say to her. It was true: why hadn't I done anything? I could hear my father still yelling. He was crying along with his violent outbursts. That always confused me. He never apologized. It was never his wrongdoing. He was the one inflicting the bruises that painted my mother's body, yet he cried. It made me wonder if it was because he was hurting too. That was the day I felt true powerlessness. As a young child I didn't know what that meant, but fear controlled me when my body refused to move from its place. I was distraught over the daunting question my mother had asked me. I could have yelled for him to stop. I could have called someone for help. I could have stopped him. The last thought haunted me. And it made me wonder if it was my fault. Surely, my mother wouldn't ask me that if there was truly nothing I could've done. My father should've been the bad guy. But I was the biggest let down— to myself. I was a bystander in my own home. I wanted more than anything to protect my mother. But I was still afraid, which meant I was useless. I was angry. Not only with my father, but with myself the most. Reflecting back on this day as a young adult, I realize that so much was out of my control. The systemic, abusive struggle between my parents was not something I could have alleviated or fixed. Yet, to this day, I still seek the answer to a question I fully understand provides me with no refuge, no reward: was there anything I could've done?