It was a quiet Sunday night, decades ago—September 22nd. My younger teenage brother had just left the house for his part-time job. None of us knew that night would change our lives forever. It was the night our mom, Joanne, was brutally murdered by her husband, Bob.

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That night is seared into my memory. It marked not just a devastating personal loss, but also a painful reminder of the harsh reality of domestic violence in our country.

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In Canada, every single week, two women are killed by a partner or former partner. Over one million children are affected each year by domestic violence. This crisis cuts across every line—economic, cultural, racial, and educational.

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I was one of those children.

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As a young man, my world shattered. I buried the pain deep inside for years, thinking I had to stay strong, that silence was survival. But I was just one of the many children whose lives are torn apart by domestic violence—one among millions.

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My mom, Joanne, was an incredible woman. She raised three boys on her own for many years, worked full-time, and later chased her dream of becoming a nurse at 40. She was our rock—resilient, loving, and fiercely devoted. She made us feel like the luckiest kids on earth, even when we had very little. She gave us strength and the belief that we could be anything we dreamed of.

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But behind her brave smile was a woman suffering in silence. Like so many others, she faced unimaginable fear and uncertainty. She worried about how to provide for us, and she was terrified to speak out. Her story is the story of so many women who are trapped in a cycle of abuse.

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Years later, I sat in a federal prison boardroom and faced the man who murdered my mother. It was his early parole hearing. Hearing him try to justify what he did cracked open every wound we had tried to close. That day, we learned of my mother’s repeated cries for help, her nights in shelters, and the terror she lived with every day. Like many women, she had been sleeping with one eye open—just trying to survive.

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I share this story not for sympathy, but to honour my mother’s memory. To speak for those too afraid to speak. And to show children like me that they are not alone, and that what happened to them is not their fault.

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Domestic violence doesn’t care about your address, your income, or your background. It’s a crisis hiding in plain sight. And far too often, the justice system sends a dangerous message: that victims’ lives don’t matter. My mother’s killer served less than half of his sentence. He was deemed “no threat to society”—unless, of course, you're a woman in a relationship with him. Most men who murder their partners serve an average of just 12 years before being released.

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My mother stayed in that home, endured that abuse, because she wanted us to have stability—something she never had growing up. When she finally sought help, the system failed her. It’s still failing women and families today. Shelters struggle for resources. Survivors feel alone. And yet, governments funnel more money into trivial projects than into saving lives.

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Our story isn’t unique. It’s happening in homes across North America. We raise our voices for more bike lanes, but remain silent when a convicted murderer walks free back into our communities.

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The scars of domestic violence don’t fade—they are carried by generations. It’s time we stopped whispering about it. It’s time we faced this epidemic head-on. We need to talk to our kids. We need to support the shelters. We need to create a world where no one is too afraid to ask for help.

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Domestic violence affects everyone—women, men, children, seniors. If you’re in a violent situation, don’t wait. Please, seek help. You are not alone. You matter. And there is a way out.

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I urge you: break the silence. Make space for someone to ask for help. And if you can, support a shelter in your community. Your voice, your compassion, your action—it could save a life.

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Thank you for reading my story. And thank you for standing with survivors like my mother, and families like mine, in the fight to end domestic violence.