TW: descriptions of domestic violence and domestic abuse.
What happens when, as an abuse and domestic violence survivor, you now have to confront similar situations happening to other people in your line of work? How do you face your past demons without compromising the safety of the person you are trying to help today? This is the main theme in author and retired police officer Mary Devine’s new novel, ‘Standing Up: Making the Best Out of Surviving the Worst‘ (She Writes Press) out May 6, 2025.
At just twenty-three years old, Mary Sweeney-Devine unknowingly stumbled into the clutches of her abuser. She struggled to get free, and just when she thought she was out on the other side, her second marriage to a recovering alcoholic brought more unforeseen obstacles.
But Mary persisted, fueled by her own determination and spirit. With the help of some unexpected allies, her own resilience, and a little bit of humor, she was able to face the demons of her past not just personally, but in her professional life as a police detective when her first major case is startlingly similar to her own.
It’s a harrowing story of one woman surviving abuse, becoming a police detective, and being forced to face her demons when her first major case mirrors her own experience. As the release day for the book approaches in the Spring, we were luck enough to feature an excerpt from ‘Standing Up’, which you can read below.
“Police! Open the door!”
“Hello, I’m Officer Sweeney. Do you mind if we come in?” The man didn’t answer.
“It looks like the neighbors have seen enough of your business tonight,” I added…
“I could hear you guys from a block away when I got here.” “Look, it’s no big deal. We were just arguing. Yeah, I know we shouldn’t have thrown the stuff out the windows, but it’s our stuff, so that ain’t a crime, right?”
I shrugged back at him. “No, it’s not a crime, but you know, you guys caused quite a stir, and it looks like things got a little out of control. I think we’ve all been there, but we need to make sure everybody is okay. That’s all. Everyone argues. We just need to see her, chat for a minute, and we will be on our way. What’s her name?” I asked.
“You don’t need to know her name. Nothing happened, and y’all can just go on and harass somebody else.” He placed both of his hands on his hips in a Superman stance. The change in his demeanor and body language affected our approach, and as I glanced at my partner, it was clear that he agreed.
“Okay, sir, I’m going to need you to turn around and put your hands behind your back.” I pulled my cuffs from the pouch at the small of my back and moved toward the man slowly, still talking.
“You’re not under arrest. I’m going to put these handcuffs on you just until we figure out what happened here tonight. It’s for my safety and yours.”
My partner was muscular, and he moved forward with cuffs in hand. His size shifted the odds in our favor, and I was grateful he was there.
“What? Why are y’all handcuffing me? I didn’t do nothing. I know my rights! I told you, we just had an argument,” he shouted.
His body language was adversarial as he puffed up in front of me, attempting to intimidate me, which instantly reminded me of Vince and pissed me off. My partner took over negotiating for a peaceful resolution.
“Dude, this is no big deal. We do it every day, and as soon as we talk to your wife and make sure she’s okay, we’ll take them back off again, but you have to understand, we can’t just take your word for it. We have to make sure she’s okay. We don’t know you, and what if she turned up dead or something? You know what I mean?”
He said this as he proceeded to handcuff the man, who was still protesting and threatening to get a lawyer and sue.
“Go ahead, Sweeney. You check the house. I’ll stay here with this knucklehead,” the officer said.
It was a small house, and I made my way from room to room, flipping on lights and checking closets until, by process of elimination, I got to what appeared to be the master bedroom. The door was closed, and it looked like the lights were out.
I knocked on the door with the butt of my flashlight and in a low tone said, “It’s okay; you can open the door now.”
The door opened slowly, and a petite woman appeared, wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and slippers. The little boy I’d seen earlier clung to her side.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” I asked.
Her face was puffy and wet with tears, her eyes red and swollen.
“Yeah,” she said.
“What happened here tonight?” I asked.
“It was all my fault. I was mad at him, and we were arguing,” the woman said.
How many times had I thought that same thing? I knew that whatever she said next would not rise to the level of the carnage we were seeing, and images of my bloody, damaged apartment shuffled through my mind’s eye. I took out my notepad and pen and took notes.
“What were you guys arguing about?” I asked.
“He’s shady,” she said.
“Shady?” I repeated.
“He’s running with some woman from West Side. Meantime, I got his kid here, and we half-starved while he’s wining and dining her! I’m done!”
“I see. How did all the stuff end up on the front lawn, and whose car is that in the driveway?” I prodded.
“It’s his car. He was out with her, and I called him on his phone. I knew he was with her and told him I was throwing his shit out. Oh, sorry about my language. I told him I was throwing his stuff out, and he could move in with her. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I was mad. I guess he was close by because he came flying into the driveway.”
“What happened next?”
“He came running in mad, and I was throwing his clothes and stuff out the window. That’s about when you guys showed up.”
“At any point tonight did it ever become physical? I mean, did your husband ever push, punch, slap, or hurt you physically or threaten to?” I asked.
“Well, not really.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really’?” I asked in an even tone, still staring at my notepad.
“Well, when you guys got here, he said I’d better stay in the bed- room and shut up, or he’d put me through the wall.”
“Okay, he said he’d put you through the wall. So, he never put his hands on you?”
“Well, except for he had his hands around my throat when he said that.”
The little pajamaed boy burst into tears, shouting, “He was choking Mommy. I tried and I tried to make him stop, and he just wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m so sorry, Mommy. I couldn’t stop him.”
His gut-wrenching words came out in sobs and hiccups, as grief-stricken tears and mucus ran down his face. Everything they taught us about controlling our emotional responses to the victim’s account of the trauma went out the window. I wanted to grab him and hold him, and hug her, and promise it would never happen again. My ears thumped as my heart pounded, and I noticed the large red marks on her neck.
“You’re okay, honey. It’s all over,” I said to the boy. “Do you need an ambulance, ma’am?”
“No, you guys got here just in time,” she said.
The woman held the little boy in her arms with the vacant look of a girl who had been through too much, stroking his hair and telling him it wasn’t his fault.
Though my heart broke for them, I excused myself to check on my partner, and let him know that based on his wife’s statement and obvious injury, the man would be arrested.
You can pre-order a copy of ‘Standing Up’ before it hits shelves May 6, 2025. Visit Mary Devine’s website, and follow her on Facebook.
Mary Sweeney-Devine graduated from Wilmington University with a bachelor’s degree before joining the police force, where she served in the detective unit, was promoted to sergeant, and eventually commanded the mounted patrol until her retirement in 2016. She now serves as an investigator for the State of Delaware while dreaming of her next book. Besides writing, she loves painting, swimming, hiking, and horses. ‘Standing Up’ is Mary’s first book. She resides in Middletown, Delaware.
