After the officers left, the house felt hollow. My mom and I sat at the same table he’d slammed earlier. The turkey was cold. The lights seemed to mock us.
“I don’t understand,” my mom said. “How could he do this?”
“Because he thought he controlled everything,” I answered. “Including me.”
She winced. “I should’ve defended you.”
“You were scared,” I said softly. “I get it.”
“But you weren’t,” she whispered.
I wasn’t sure that was true—but fear eventually becomes something steadier.
Paige came down later, crying, and hugged me. “I didn’t know,” she said.
“I know.”
By midnight, my mom finally asked, “What happens now?”
“That depends on us,” I said. “But we’re not pretending anymore.”
The next day, officers returned. Accounts were frozen. Statements taken. It wasn’t dramatic—it was real.
By New Year’s, Brian was out of the house.
And me? I finally had a voice. One I wasn’t giving up again.
