“Drama! Drama everywhere!” said my sister, walking in the house. On their way back from the doctor, my mom and sister stumbled upon a chatty taxi driver who told them about her sister’s relationship with her brother-in-law.

“It’s so bizarre, so strange and a little tragic. It’s so sad, actually,” said my sister, prefacing the taxi driver’s story.

“She [the taxi driver] told us that her sister, Kate, and her brother-in-law married one month after meeting each other. Kate got pregnant shortly after and was all like, 'This is all you,' and Jonny, her brother-in-law, always replied with an ’I'm sorry, I know it’s my fault.' The child was born, he’s healthy by the way, but their parents are always fighting. Apparently, Jonny didn’t work for a couple of years, and when he did, he lost what he earned gambling. So Kate started to hit him as a form of punishment. Plus, she locked him inside the house and only 'took him out’ every other weekend. I think now both have jobs, but she still hits Jonny. He even says ‘let me put the child to sleep so that he can’t hear you beating me.’ It’s so sad! And Jonny just takes it.”

I remained silent for a while.

I wasn’t expecting that kind of story. Though my sister explicitly framed the story as containing drama, I thought it would be something unheard of, something extraordinary, perhaps something that involved some sort of supernatural force or narrative. Instead, I was given reality. I was told a story that was so real, it scared me. Jonny could have been my neighbor, or a friend I haven’t talked to in a while, or any of the people I walk by on a particularly sunny Saturday. Any of them could have been Kate, as well. Any of them could have been emotional and physical abusers. Any of them could have been the one accepting the abuse as deserving punishment.

While I was horrified that such stories are real and happening probably every day, I was more horrified at myself. I was horrified at the fact that, deep down, I wished I hadn’t heard that story. Deep down, I wished that I hadn’t been reminded that violence happens in the private realm on a daily basis. I wished all that because I knew that there was little I could do to prevent it. I knew that I could not help Jonny and/or try to understand Kate. What chances did I have if the taxi driver herself felt powerless?

Days passed by and dinner conversations were once again about familiar stories, stories that we have some influence over, stories that we are a part of and thus can change (or at least attempt to) if we want to.

Still, at random moments during the day, I kept thinking about Jonny and Kate. And when I did, I felt thankful for the family and friends I have. I felt thankful that I do not have to fear coming back home to an abusive partner, or that my life choices and experiences have transformed me into an abusive person myself.

I’m thankful for having heard that story. I know I cannot do anything to help their situation. Maybe they do not consciously want any help and feel fine. I will never know. But I’m thankful for that story because it reminded me of an aspect of reality that I think I’m immune to, an aspect of reality I do not think of, and thus would not know how to respond to.

Now, a little part of me feels part of Jonny and Kate’s story. While that may bring frustration, it also makes me more sympathetic toward those undergoing a similar situation. And for that, I’m thankful.

I hope this story doesn’t not bring you frustration. I hope, instead, that this story reminds you, like it did to me, that we are not immune to any situation in life, that we could be or know a Kate or Jonny, and that, because of that possibility, to be an active participant in our own stories so that if any Kates or Jonnys enter, it doesn’t take us by surprise.

You probably knew that already, though. But I needed to make sure.