Chapter 6

Ashes and Embers

The weeks that followed felt like living in slow motion.

Everything around me looked the same — the same little house, the same walls, the same baby toys scattered across the floor — but nothing felt the same anymore. The air was heavier. The silence sharper.

He still came and went as he pleased, acting like nothing had changed.

Every creak of the door made my stomach twist. I tried to avoid him as much as possible, staying tucked away in the bedroom with the kids. My daughter was starting to talk more — her little voice saying “Mama” and “love you” like a melody that kept me from falling apart. My baby boy, sweet and round-faced, was my peace in all the chaos. I’d hold him close at night, listening to the sound of his breathing and reminding myself that, no matter what, I couldn’t give up.

But God, it was lonely.

Lonely and terrifying. I didn’t have much money, no plan, and no idea how to start over. I just knew I couldn’t keep living like this.

He’d still try to talk to me sometimes, as if we were fine — as if we hadn’t just torn each other to pieces. Other times, he’d pick fights, small jabs that built up until I was in tears again. It was like he needed to remind me that leaving him wouldn’t be easy. That he still had control.

So I stayed quiet.

I learned to shrink myself — to move silently, to keep my words short and calm. I stopped inviting anyone over. I didn’t want the world to see how broken everything had become.

When my mom came by, she could sense it. She’d ask gentle questions — “Are you okay, baby?” “He’s not still hurting you, is he?” — and I’d shake my head, forcing a smile. Lying felt easier than the truth. The truth made it real.

Some nights I’d stand in the hallway after the kids were asleep and just… breathe. Long, deep breaths. Trying to remember who I used to be before all the fear and second-guessing. I’d look around at the toys, the photos, the small bits of normal life I was holding together, and whisper to myself, “You’re still here. You’re still standing.”

It didn’t feel like strength then. It just felt like surviving.

But sometimes surviving is the bravest thing a person can do.The day finally came when I couldn’t take it anymore.

I’d listened to him whispering into the phone too many times — the low laughter, the tone that used to be just for me. I knew who was on the other end. I didn’t need to hear the words to know.

Something in me broke.

I started grabbing his things, throwing them out the door — piece by piece, shirt by shirt, all the lies and the hurt hitting the front porch. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t care. I was done being quiet. Done pretending.

He came charging down the hallway, shouting, and before I knew it, it was happening again.

Another fight. Only this time, it was different.

This time, I fought back.

He shoved me hard, and I stumbled. Then he was on me — sitting on my chest, his knees pinning my arms to the floor. His hands closed around my throat.

I couldn’t breathe.

I could feel my pulse slamming in my ears, the world blurring at the edges. I clawed at his wrists, trying to make him stop, but he was stronger. All I could think was this is it.

And then, through the haze, I heard the smallest sound — a soft, frightened voice.

“Mommy?”

My daughter was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, frozen.

I tried to speak, but no sound came out — just a rasp, a whisper of her name. It was barely audible, but it was enough. He turned his head toward her, just for a second — and that second saved my life.

The moment his weight shifted, I twisted free and scrambled to my feet. My lungs burned, my throat throbbed, but I was moving. He went for the door, and I went for his gun. My hands found the cold metal where he’d left it, and for the first time in a long time, he looked afraid.

I didn’t raise it. I just held it.

I wasn’t going to shoot him — but I needed him to know I could.

He stopped, eyes locked on mine, and then bolted through the door.

The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear my own heartbeat, the sound of my daughter’s quiet crying, the baby wailing from the other room.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone.

I didn’t call the police. I didn’t even think to.

I called his grandmother.

“Come get him,” I said, my voice shaking. “Make him leave. Now.”

It was the only thing I knew to do.

When his grandmother finally showed up, she didn’t waste any time.

She walked in like she owned the place — no questions, no concern, no acknowledgment of the bruises on my throat or the chaos he’d left behind. She didn’t even ask if I was alright. She just sighed, muttered something about “boys and their tempers,” and started packing his clothes.

He never came back.

Not once.

I stood there in the doorway of what used to be our home, holding my daughter on my hip, my baby boy balanced on the other arm, watching as she folded his shirts like this was just another day. Every drawer she emptied, every hanger she pulled down, felt like a piece of my old life being erased — and I let it happen. I was too tired to stop her. Too relieved to care.

Then she tried to take the kids.

She said I looked worn out, that I needed a break, that she’d just keep them for a night or two so I could rest. But the tone in her voice told me everything I needed to know.

I didn’t trust her. Not for a second.

I told her no — firmly, for the first time in a long time. She gave me that tight, disapproving smile, the kind meant to make me doubt myself, and then she dropped it. She went back to folding, muttering under her breath about “ungrateful girls.”

A little while later, his grandfather pulled up in his truck, and the two of them started loading boxes.

They didn’t speak to me. They didn’t need to.

The message was clear: they were cleaning up their mess, not helping me with mine.

Then came the knock at the door — a few of the guys from the firehouse.

They’d come to help move his stuff, their faces awkward and uncertain. I could see it in their eyes — they knew something had happened, but no one wanted to say it out loud. I didn’t either. I just pointed to the boxes and told them what was his.

When it was done, I stood in the doorway again and watched the last of it disappear down the street.

His clothes, his gear, his things — all gone.

The house looked empty, but it was mine again.

I didn’t care that they left me with nothing but bare walls and an aching heart.

I wasn’t letting anyone take what mattered. The toys, the crib, the little things I’d bought for my children — those stayed right where they were.

When the trucks finally pulled away and the quiet settled back in, I reached for the phone.

There was only one person I wanted to call.

“Mom?”

The word came out as a whisper, half sob, half relief.

And just like she had every other time life had fallen apart, she came.