“I have news,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice. “Remember that case we took last month, Fernanda?”
I remember. 40-year-old woman, abusive husband, three kids, no money to leave the house.
“We did it. Protection order approved. She and the kids are already in the shelter safe.”
I close my eyes, feeling that warmth in my chest. “That is great. That is really great.”
“That is why we do this, right? For these moments.”
“Yes.”
We hang up, and I stay there thinking. How many women have we managed to help in these years? How many children did we save? Not in such a dramatic way as Leo and I were saved, but saved nonetheless. From toxic relationships, from abuse, from dead end situations.
We transformed our tragedy into purpose.
“Mom.”
Leo appears in the doorway. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
He sits on the chair next to me. He is bigger now, growing too fast for my taste. Soon he will be taller than me.
“Are you happy?”
The question takes me by surprise.
“I am. Why?”
He shrugs. “I just wanted to know. Because of… Because of everything that happened, I thought maybe you would stay sad forever.”
I take his hand. It is not so tiny anymore. “I was sad for a while. Yes. And I still get sad sometimes when I remember. But I am also happy because I have you. I have a job I love. I have real friends. I have a life I chose. Not that someone chose for me.”
“And dad,” he asks, “did you forgive him?”
That one is harder. “I do not know if I forgave him. Forgiving does not mean forgetting or saying everything is okay. Maybe it is more letting go, not carrying that weight anymore. And in that, yes, I think I succeeded.”
He nods, processing. “I think so too. I do not think much about him. Just sometimes when I remember how it was before, but then I remember that that was not real and it becomes easier.”
What wisdom for an 11-year-old boy. But Leo never was an ordinary child. He grew up too fast. He saw too many things. But he survived. And more than that, he bloomed.
“I love you so much. Did you know?” I tell him, hugging him.
“Me too, Mom.” He hugs me back. Then he lets go. “Can I go back to homework? I only have math left.”
“You can.”
He goes back inside, and I stay there on the porch watching the sun rise in the sky. I think about how strange life is.
5 years ago, I was losing everything, or believing I was: the house, the marriage, the security. But actually, I was gaining something more important. Freedom. Freedom to be myself. To make my own decisions. To build a life based on truth, not pretty lies.
And yes, it hurts. Sometimes it still hurts. There are nights I wake up sweating, dreaming of fire. There are days I see a man from afar who looks like James and my heart races. The trauma does not disappear completely. We learn to live with it.
But we also learn that we are stronger than we imagine, that we can survive the unimaginable, that we can rebuild from the ashes. Literally, in my case.
My phone vibrates again. Message from the support group I coordinate for domestic violence survivors.
Thank you for the meeting yesterday. For the first time I felt I am not alone
I reply.
You never were and you never will be. We are in this together.
It is for these messages that I do what I do because I know what it is to feel alone, trapped with no way out. And I know what it is to find a hand extended when you need it most. Like my father gave me when he left me Catherine’s card. Like Catherine gave me when she took me in. Like Leo gave me when he had the courage to speak.
Even being so small, we do not save ourselves alone. We need each other.
And now I give back. I extend my hand to other women who are where I was. And I lift them up.
The sun has risen completely now. A new day, a new opportunity. I get up. I go inside the house. Leo is at the table, concentrated on the numbers. He does not notice when I approach and kiss the top of his head.
“Mom,” he protests, but he is smiling. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”
“Sorry, I won’t bother you anymore.”
I go to the kitchen to make lunch. Something simple. Pasta with marinara sauce. Leo’s favorite food.
While I stir the sauce, I hear him humming in the living room. Humming. A child who witnessed an attempted murder, who lost his home, who saw his father get arrested. He is humming while doing his math homework.
If that is not resilience, I do not know what is. And it gives me hope. Hope that no matter what life throws at us, we can survive. We can overcome. We can even be happy again. Not in the same way. Not like we were before, but in a new way, stronger, wiser.
The oven timer rings. I turn it off. I start serving the plates.
“Leo, lunchtime.”
He comes running, as he always does when it is food. He sits at the table with that wide smile.
“What is for dessert?”
“Ice cream. If you eat all your food first.”
“I can do that in my sleep.”
We laugh, we eat, we talk about the week, about plans for the weekend, about the science project he is doing at school. Normal things, normal life. And it is beautiful. After all, it is beautiful to have that normality again.
After lunch, Leo goes to his friend’s house. I wash the dishes. I tidy up the house. I answer some work emails. Routine. Wonderful. Mundane routine.
In the afternoon, when Leo returns, we watch a movie together. Silly animation that makes me laugh. He complains that it is kid stuff, but he laughs, too.
And when night falls, when I tuck him in, even though he complains he is too big for that, he gives me a tight hug.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Why, sweetie?”
“For believing me that day at the airport. If you had not believed me…”
“But I believed you,” I say, “and I am always going to believe in you.”
He smiles. He settles into bed.
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, my hero.”
I turn off the light. I close the door. And for the first time in 5 years, I do not feel afraid of tomorrow, because no matter what comes, I know we will face it together.
And we are going to survive.
