4. Isabella Viana

I woke up to the sound of low voices coming from the kitchen.

My body still felt heavy from the exhaustion of the day before, and my head throbbed. I didn’t know who had put me to bed—probably my mom. My clothes had been changed.

Fragments of memory flickered through my mind.

My conversation with Marina.

Asking my mom to come with me.

And then—my stepfather.

He hit me.

He touched me just to steal my money again, just like last time.

A surge of anger took over me, and I kicked the blanket off, forcing myself out of bed even though I was still in my pajamas. I was done—with the abuse, the yelling, being robbed, and watching my mom go through the same thing.

Today, I was going to face him.

Because that small piece of hope was still burning somewhere inside me, giving me courage—even as fear and guilt tried to put it out. I took a deep breath, trying to brace myself for another day of impossible choices.

As soon as I stepped out of my room, the smell of coffee filled the air—but there was something else, too.

Tension.

My mom was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with her hands wrapped around a mug. She didn’t look at me when I walked in, but I saw her red eyes, her tired face.

And then I noticed.

He was there.

My stepfather was leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, wearing a look I knew all too well.

The kind that said: You don’t belong here.

I ignored him, focusing on my mom.

“Good morning, Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Good morning, Isa,” she replied without looking up.

I grabbed a mug and poured myself some coffee, trying to lose myself in the routine. But he wasn’t going to leave me alone. He never did.

“So, I hear you’re planning to leave,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I froze.

How did he know?

I glanced at my mom, but she kept staring into her cup as if she couldn’t hear a thing.

“That’s none of your business,” I said, forcing my voice to stay firm. “I’m an adult. You can’t stop me.”

“None of my business?” He laughed—a dry, humorless sound. “As long as you live under my roof, everything here is my business.”

My heart started racing. I knew where this was going. It always ended the same way—shouting, threats, tears.

Not this time.

“You’re not my father. I’m not arguing with you,” I said, setting the mug down in the sink.

“Oh, you’re not?” He stepped closer, and I caught the sharp smell of alcohol mixed with anger. “You think you’re better than everyone, don’t you? Think you can just walk away and leave your mother behind like she’s a burden.”

“That’s not it!” I snapped, losing control. “I just want a chance at a better life!”

“A better life?” He laughed again, but this time there was something dangerous in it. “You don’t deserve a better life. You don’t deserve anything.”

He took another step toward me, and I instinctively stepped back.

My mom finally stood, placing herself between us.

“Please, stop,” she begged, her voice shaking. “Don’t do this.”

“Shut up!” he shouted, shoving her aside.

She fell back into the chair.

And something inside me snapped.

“Don’t touch her!” I yelled, lunging at him.

But he was stronger.

He grabbed my arm, his grip so tight it made my vision blur.

“You’re leaving,” he muttered, his voice thick with bitterness, “and you’re not taking anything with you.”

I turned to face him, my heart pounding, trying to steady my voice.

“Yes, I am. I have documents, money—everything I need to start over.”

He smirked, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Ungrateful. You think you can just run away and leave me here with this woman?” he said, pointing at my mom.

My blood boiled.

“I’m the only one trying to save her! You’re the one keeping her trapped in this hell!”

Silence fell for a few seconds.

Then, in a move I never expected, my mom stood up.

Without hesitation, she slapped him across the face.

The sound echoed through the kitchen.

He stumbled back, shocked.

“Go, Isa,” she said, her eyes filled with tears—but also something new. Determination. “Go now. Hurry.”

I was stunned.

But my chest tightened at the sacrifice she was making for me.

I didn’t think twice.

While they kept shouting in the kitchen, I rushed to my room and started throwing everything from my closet into my one suitcase.

All my clothes fit inside it.

My dreams. My plans.

I zipped it shut without caring about folding anything—or even changing out of my pajamas—and went back to the kitchen, ready to leave.

“Come with me, Mom,” I begged, holding her hands.

She looked at me with sadness and shook her head. He was gone again.

“I can’t, Isa. I don’t have the strength to leave. But you need to go.”

My eyes filled with tears—a mix of pain and gratitude. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I had to keep going.

With trembling hands, I grabbed my phone and dialed my cousin—the only person I truly trusted.

I needed somewhere to stay. Somewhere to think. Somewhere far from here.

“Marina?” My voice broke, barely above a whisper. “I… I need a place to stay.”

“Isa! What happened? Are you crying?” Her voice was filled with concern.

“I can’t do this anymore. He… he was going through my things, looking for the money I saved. We fought, and he pushed me out of the house… I don’t know what to do.”

Tears streamed down my face, and I had to close my eyes to keep my voice from falling apart completely.

“Okay, Isa. Breathe. Just breathe. Are you safe right now?”

“I’m sitting at a bus stop, across the street from my house. I don’t have anywhere to go… can you help me?”

“Of course I can. I’m coming to get you. Just hang on—I’m on my way.”