What Happens In The Ending Of Breaking Free Of Child Anxiety And OCD?

That night was supposed to belong to Mia. She had spent a month practicing for her first piano recital. I had cooked all afternoon, set the table, and helped her into the pale blue dress Luca loved. She stood beside the piano, cheeks flushed, fingers trembling with excitement. Then Luca's phone rang. Vivienne was spiraling again. After Luca's older brother died, his widow never really came back from it. On her worst nights, she forgot the difference between the dead husband she had lost and the brother-in-law who kept showing up to save her. And Luca always showed up. Every time Vivienne broke, he left us behind. Every time he came home, he brought apologies, pretty gifts, and promises for next time. And every time, I believed him. Until that night. Before he could make another excuse, I placed the divorce papers in front of him. He signed without reading them, then touched my shoulder like he was the one being generous. "When this is over, I'll make it up to you," he said. "You, me, and Mia. The Maldives. No calls. No interruptions." Then he kissed our daughter's hair and walked out before she played a single note. What Luca didn't know was that Mia's passport was already packed. So was the little suitcase under her bed. I was done waiting for a man who only loved us when no one else needed him. This time, he could come home to an empty house.

The day I signed the divorce papers, I voluntarily gave up custody of my daughter. Because that day, in the courtroom, she clung to her father’s neck, sobbing with all the fury a six-year-old could muster: “You don’t even love me… do you? If you leave Daddy, I’ll stay with him… and you’ll be all alone forever!” In my past life, I had ignored her childish threats. I fought tooth and nail for her custody. I poured every ounce of myself into raising her. And yet… she spent her entire life hating me. Not once did she ever call me “Mom” until the day I died. On her wedding day, she even invited her father’s mistress to the stage to give a speech of thanks. Now, opening my eyes again, seeing that same cruel little face staring back at me, I simply nodded. “I don’t care.” After all… I never wanted a daughter like her anyway.

My adopted daughter, Phoebe Marsh, possessed an evil ability. Whenever she got hurt, the pain would also be inflicted directly on my biological daughter, Maisie Shaw. She deliberately hurt herself, covering her body with wounds and bruises. Then, she would turn around with cold eyes, watching Maisie writhe on the floor in agony until she passed out from the pain. With no medical solution available, I broke down and held Maisie close, begging my husband, Brandon Shaw, to send Phoebe away. However, he would erupt in fury. "It's obviously Maisie who's been faking illness for attention, and you're making up this ridiculous story to get rid of Phoebe. She's just a fragile, helpless child. How can you be so vicious?" After that, Phoebe escalated her self-harm even more viciously. Meanwhile, Maisie spent every day curled up in the corner of her bed, refusing to let anyone touch her. On Maisie's birthday, Phoebe threw herself from the fifth floor. Just as Maisie was blowing out her candles and making a wish, she suddenly began bleeding from all her facial orifices, and she died instantly. Yet, Phoebe only suffered minor scrapes. I died from overwhelming grief shortly after. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to Phoebe's first day in our home. Maisie was playing with her Legos when she suddenly clutched her ankle and started crying. This time, I grabbed the broom from behind the door and swung it toward Maisie, shouting, "I'll beat you up for faking illness and seeking attention!"

My mom is terrified of being laughed at by others the most. Whenever the holidays are here, she will keep repeating one sentence to me—"Don't go around embarrassing me." When my relatives gather around and chat with each other, I accidentally knock a fruit platter over. Mom drags me over and slaps me on the spot. At the holiday feast, I grab extra pieces of steak for myself. Mom responds by kicking my chair over. When it's time for the holiday gifts to be distributed, my aunt, Gabriella Hall, has miscalculated the number of children present among the family. So, she has prepared one less gift for the occasion. Mom doesn't hesitate to kick me out of the apartment, leaving me shivering in the cold corridor in just my indoor clothes. The icy winds chill me to the bone. I keep slamming my palms on the front door while screaming and crying my apologies at Mom, and yet she remains unmoved and silent. Instead, she turns to face Aunt Gabriella with an apologetic smile on her face. "I'm really sorry. I didn't raise my daughter well. It's only fair that you ridicule me." What Mom doesn't know is that I get triggered whenever I hear the word "ridicule" thanks to her so-called parenting lessons. Whenever I hear that word, I want nothing more than to hurt myself uncontrollably. So when I hear the word "ridicule" coming out of Mom's mouth through the front door, I turn on my heel quietly and begin making my way toward the bridge next to the neighborhood that's plunged into darkness. The moment I jump from the bridge, the only thought I have is, "Mom, no one will ridicule you because of me this time."

My new husband always acted like a child. Before our son turned two, he would grab the boy’s food bowls every single day and refuse to let go. When our son turned four, he had developed an obsession with planting seeds and watering the little garden in our backyard. When our son turned five, I ran into my Christian ex-boyfriend after six years apart at a business event. He looked the same as before and narrowed his eyes at me with cold disdain. “Didn’t we agree never to see each other again after the breakup? “How are you still this pathetic after six years? You chased me all the way here?” In an instant, everyone turned to watch and whispered among themselves, wondering whether I would shamelessly beg him to get back together with me. After all, back then, I had used every trick I had just to win over William. It was how I had managed to get hold of a man who seemed aloof and almost otherworldly. No one knew that every time William slept with me, he would go to church and repent in secret before a photo of his foster sister. He even kicked me out of the Wells family for her sake. He forced me to donate over a quart of blood to his foster sister when I was hospitalized after a miscarriage. From that moment on, my heart was numb. I returned to my hometown and married my devoted husband. I never expected that six years later, I would see him again. William watched me in silence, then pulled an old diamond ring from his pocket and tossed it at my feet. “Pick it up, and put it on. I’ll marry you.”

“You will move to the Emerson’s family,” the judge announced, his voice echoing through the cold courtroom. His final words hung in the air, making me jump as he used his gavel to close my argument to move to yet another foster home. My name is Emily. For the past three years, I have been caught in a perpetual cycle of living in between foster homes, on the unforgiving streets The tragic loss of my parents when I was only fourteen left me with no choice but to rely on the mercy of the foster system. Unfortunately, my only living relative, deemed me too much of a burden due to my unpredictable moods. Consequently, I have been tossed from one foster family to another like a forgotten toy. With only four months left until my eighteenth birthday, I find myself being sent to live with the Emerson family. From what I've heard, they have two daughters and a son named Aiden, whose ego supposedly matches his oversized shoes. Aiden Emerson, a name that resonates throughout the Ford Anglia School. He holds the distinction of being the youngest student to become a billionaire at the tender age of twenty-four he had become the proud owner of eight thriving establishments. Will they be able to cope with me, considering my troubled past? Or will I end up running away again, seeking solace on the unforgiving streets where I learned to numb my pain with drugs and temporary escapes? Now, here I am, on my way to the Emerson family, my last stop before I turn eighteen and gain the freedom to decide my own fate. I can't help but wonder what lies ahead. Will my past mistakes and inner demons continue to haunt me, pushing me towards the edge of oblivion?