Letter to the Women Who Chose to Erase
To you who believed — perhaps in good faith — that destroying the past was necessary to build a future.
To you who thought you were fighting for your freedom, while someone else was fighting through you, for an end that was never truly your own.
To you who said “enough” not only to a man, but to a story, to a bond, to an entire piece of your life — however imperfect it may have been.
We ask you: was it worth it?
You erased years — often decades — of your existence, not to escape a real danger, but to conform to a narrative.
You put an end to what you had built together, even when there was still space to speak, to understand, to mend.
And you did so, perhaps, because someone made you believe that wanting it was enough.
That breaking away meant strength. That every disagreement was abuse, and every difficulty a chain to be broken.
But the real question remains:
Who gained from this process?
Are you truly freer now? More fulfilled? More real?
Or did you simply hand yourselves over to a culture that has made separation a virtue and mistrust the new language of love?
Have you ever considered that what you now call “psychological abuse” may, at times, have been nothing more than imperfect communication, judged through preconstructed cognitive frameworks?
That misunderstanding, fatigue — even silence — were not tools of domination, but signs of a relationship in crisis, desperately trying not to die?
Have you ever considered that all of this could have been resolved from within, with more listening and less ideology? With more humility and fewer ready-made schemes?
Was it worth it to punish your children with the absence of their father?
To deprive them of the chance to grow up with two presences, two perspectives, two different embraces?
You were made to believe that their father was a danger to them.
And you repeated those words in court, where — in the name of protection — a judge ultimately erased the father from their lives.
But if deep down you knew that danger never truly existed — and let us admit it now, after the proceedings are over — then you didn’t protect them.
You deprived them. You used them to serve what you believed to be your purpose.
You confused the end of a couple with the destruction of the parental bond.
And that is a wound that time will not erase. It is a wound that will grow along with them.
Was it worth it to impact their future, forcing legal expenses, mediation, consultations, courts…
Thousands of euros that could have gone toward their dreams, their education, their peace.
Every euro spent defending against what could have been resolved through dialogue is one less wish fulfilled for a child. One missed opportunity.
No, we don’t expect an answer now. There are too many questions. It's too hard — today — to admit you may have been wrong.
Perhaps the answers will come in a few years.
When the hangover of supposed emancipation and the chimera of self-realization have faded.
When you understand that independence is a journey — not a rupture.
That the space within a relationship must be earned through daily effort, not achieved by excluding the other.
That you don’t become more authentic by erasing a story, but by accepting its shadows.
That you don’t grow by destroying, but by walking through.
When memory surprises you with an image:
A shared laugh. A journey. A warm embrace. The birth of a child.
All those things you thought you had erased — like the photos that once captured your happiness.
As if deleting them could make the truth disappear.
But truth cannot be deleted.
It remains in your children. It remains in sleepless nights. It remains in the most alive part of you.
And then — before it is too late — it’s right that you know this:
What you went through was not merely a personal crisis.
It is part of a broader, more dangerous design.
A design that begins with the erasure of the father — as a figure, as a role, as a root — and leads, step by step, to a society without fathers or mothers.
A fluid society, where bonds are interchangeable, and no one has the right to say: “This is my child.” “This is my home.” “This is my story.”
If you cannot see it today, you will see it tomorrow.
And the question that will still be waiting for you is this:
Was it really worth it?
⟵ Back to Unsent Letters