Why I Stay: A Father’s Fear of Passing Down Generational Trauma

I stay because I am afraid of breaking something inside my son that can never be fixed.

I stay because I know what it feels like to grow up needing someone who isn’t physically there because he has to make a living for his family.

My dad was a salesman through and through and he had to sacrifice time with us to be able to provide for us. He was a very good salesman. And that meant he was always busy doing business.

When we were younger, we would enjoy being at his desk while he drew all these amazing animals for us to guess the names of. He was a really good sketcher. But as his success grew, so did the lengths of absences.

I remember months of not seeing him, of just talking to him on the phone. We would line up at the phone to get our opportunity to speak to him. And those few minutes on the phone were verbal gold.

He would tell us to be good and to study hard and that would power me through the week.

I remember feeling jealous when my classmates’ dads came to pick them up from school or be there in their homes because their office work had ended. Mine was still slaving away working double, triple hard to give us a comfortable life.  

I stay because I remember the kind of silence that sits in the corner of a room when a father is absent — the way it hums inside your chest, the way it teaches you to stop expecting anything from anyone.

And I promised myself that I would never let my child feel that.

In the Philippines, when a marriage breaks and a child is under eight years old, the law gives automatic custody to the mother.

That’s the rule.

It’s meant to protect the child, to keep them close to the parent who’s seen as the primary caregiver.

But for fathers like me — who live and breathe for their child, who wake up and sleep thinking about how to be a better dad — that law feels like a knife pressed quietly against your hope.

Because even if I know I can still visit, still provide, still love him — it’s not the same as being there.

Not the same as hearing him laugh at breakfast, or tucking him in, or being the one he runs to when he’s scared.

So, I stay.

Not because I’m happy.

Not because I’m afraid of having a failedmarriage.

But because I’m terrified of what leaving might do to him.

Sometimes, late at night, I catch myself wondering — what if I leave, and he grows up thinking love means walking away when things get hard?

What if he learns to give up on people the way I once wanted to?

What if I end up becoming the very thing I swore I’d never be — a father who’s just a story, a photo, a voice on the phone?

And that thought wrecks me.

Because no matter how difficult things get between his mom and me, I can’t bring myself to put him through the pain of separation.

He didn’t ask for any of this. He didn’t choose the tension, the silence, the small arguments that grow into heavy air.

He’s just a child — innocent, trusting, full of light. And I can’t be the one to dim that light.

I think about generational trauma a lot — the invisible weight that passes down from one heart to another, the kind you don’t even realize you’re carrying until it shapes how you love, how you fight, how you run away. I know what that feels like.

I’ve seen how it poisons relationships. And I’ve seen how hard it is to heal from it.

So, every time I think of leaving, I remember: I don’t want to pass that curse down to him.

I want him to see love that stays, even when it’s hard. I want him to see a man who keeps showing up, who apologizes, who learns to listen even when he’s angry. I want him to grow up knowing that presence matters more than perfection.

Sometimes, my cousin tell me — “You should be happy, too. You can’t stay just for your child.” And maybe my cousin’s right.

Maybe someday I’ll understand that happiness can take a different form. But right now, I can’t let go of being there for my son. Because being his father is not just a role. It’s my reason for existing.

I don’t want him to grow up wondering why I didn’t fight harder to be near him.

So, I fight in my own quiet ways.

I stay when I want to leave.

I speak gently when I want to shout.

I take a deep breath when pride wants to win.

Because I know he’s watching — even when I think he’s not.

That’s the thing about kids. They absorb everything. The tone. The sighs. The tension in the air. They may not understand the words, but they feel the distance. They notice the silence between their parents. And I never want my son to grow up thinking that’s what love looks like.

So I try.

Every day, I try.

I take him to school. I help him with his toys. I listen when he tells stories that don’t always make sense. I sit with him while he eats. I hug him even when I’m tired. And when I look at him — when I see his smile, his energy, his trust — I know exactly why I stay.

It’s not about sacrifice. It’s about protection.

Because freedom, for me, would come with a cost too heavy to bear — the cost of my son’s peace. And maybe that’s the cruel thing about love as a parent: sometimes, it’s not about what we want, but what we must protect.

I know that staying doesn’t automatically mean healing.

I know that being in the same house doesn’t mean we’re perfectly whole.

But I also know that being there gives me the chance to rewrite the story — to stop the cycle that says fathers always leave, that marriages always fall apart, that pain always repeats.

Every day is a decision.

To stay.

To forgive.

To try again.

It’s not easy. Some days, it feels like I’m breaking quietly inside.

Some days, I feel invisible.

But then he runs up to me and says, “Daddy, come play,” and suddenly the noise in my head disappears.

Because in that moment, I’m not the tired husband.

I’m not the man stuck in a marriage he doesn’t fully understand anymore.

I’m just his father. The person he trusts most in the world.

And that’s enough reason to keep trying.

Maybe someday, when he’s older, I’ll tell him all this. I’ll tell him that there were days I almost walked away, but I didn’t.

Because of him.

Because I wanted to give him something better than what I had.

Because I wanted him to know that love can still exist in the middle of broken things.

And maybe he’ll understand that love — real love — isn’t always happy or fair or easy. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it hurts. But it stays.

So I stay.
For him.
For the promise I made to myself.
For the hope that maybe, by staying, I can break the chain that’s been passed down for generations.

Because I believe that presence heals more than it hurts.
And even if I’m not perfect — even if I’m still figuring it out — at least my son will know that his father never gave up on being there.