Page 103 of Truck Hard

A woman emerges from the church, heading toward her car. Even from here, I recognize the determined set of her shoulders, the careful way she holds herself. It’s a posture I know intimately—the stance of someone who’s survived what I have. Someone who’s fought her way back from despair.

My phone buzzes in my purse, making me jump. For a split second, panic grips me. But when I fish it out, it’s just a text from Cam.

Cam

At Grams. Mac’s playing video games with me. Don’t worry about dinner.

Relief floods through me, followed quickly by guilt. My son shouldn’t have to reassure me. He shouldn’t have to carry the weight of my fears.

That thought finally propels me into action. I grab my purse and step out of the car before I can talk myself out of it again. The evening air is warm, carrying the promise of summer on the breeze. Somewhere nearby, crickets chirp their evening song.

The sign on the door catches my eye as I approach, “Support Group Meeting in the basement, take the stairs to the right.” Simple white paper with black text, but it might as well be a flashing neon sign for how much it makes my pulse race.

Inside, the church is quiet except for my footsteps echoing off the high ceiling. The familiar scent of wood polish and old hymnals brings back memories of Sunday services with my parents. Back when life was simpler. Back before Charlie.

Before Liam too, my mind whispers traitorously. But I push that thought away. I can’t think about him right now. Can’t let myself get lost in memories of strong arms and gentle kisses, of the way he looks at me like I’m something precious instead of broken.

The stairs creak under my feet as I descend into the basement. With each step, my resolve wavers. What if they judge me? What if they think I’m weak for staying with Charlie so long? What if—

Laughter drifts up from below, warm and genuine. The sound is so unexpected it stops me in my tracks. How long has it been since I really laughed like that? Since I felt that kind of lightness without this underlying layer of fear?

The basement door stands open, spilling fluorescent light into the stairwell. I can see several women gathered around a folding table laden with cookies and coffee. They’re chatting animatedly, completely at ease with each other. One of them—a short woman with curly gray hair—spots me hovering in the doorway.

“Well hello there!” She calls out, her smile reaching all the way to her eyes. “Come on in, honey. We don’t bite.”

My feet feel like lead as I step into the room, but something in her warm expression helps ease the knot in my chest. The other women turn to look at me, and I brace myself for judgment or pity. Instead, I see only understanding in their faces.

“I’m Sarah,” the gray-haired woman says, approaching me with that same gentle smile. “I facilitate this little group of survivors. Would you like some coffee? Julie makes the best snickerdoodles this side of the Ohio River.”

“I… yes. Thank you.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I’m Hannah.”

“Welcome, Hannah.” She guides me toward the snack table with a light touch on my elbow. “We’re just getting started. No pressure to share tonight if you’re not ready, but we’d love to hear your story if you feel up to it.”

The other women introduce themselves one by one. Julie, the cookie baker, has kind eyes and a slight Southern drawl. Maria wears scrubs from the hospital where she works. Jenny could bemy age or younger, with long dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. There are others whose names blur together, but each greeting feels genuine, each smile a tiny lifeline thrown my way.

We settle into a circle of folding chairs, and I clutch my Styrofoam cup of coffee like a shield. The familiar ritual of adding cream and sugar gave my shaking hands something to do, but now I wish I had declined. My stomach churns with nerves.

“Alright ladies,” Sarah says once everyone is seated. “Who’d like to start us off tonight?”

Maria raises her hand. “I will. Had a bit of a breakthrough this week.”

As she talks about finally changing her phone number—something her ex had been using to harass her for months—I study the other women’s faces. They nod in understanding, offering quiet words of encouragement.

Jenny goes next, describing her struggle with nightmares and how she’s finally sleeping through the night again. Julie shares a proud moment of standing up to her former mother-in-law at the grocery store. With each story, I feel the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.

Then Sarah turns to me. “Hannah? Would you like to share what brought you here tonight?”

All eyes turn my way, but the attention doesn’t feel oppressive like I feared. These women understand. They’ve lived through their own versions of my hell.

“I…” My voice cracks, and I take a sip of lukewarm coffee to steady myself. “I recently got out of an abusive marriage. My husband… ex-husband now… he…”

The words stick in my throat. How do I explain twelve years of systematic destruction? How do I describe the way Charlie slowly stripped away every part of me until I barely recognized myself?

“Take your time,” Sarah says softly. “We’ve all been there.”

I take a deep breath. “He controlled everything. What I wore, who I talked to, when I left the house. He forced me to homeschool our son to further isolate me.” My hands start to shake, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my cup. “I tried to be perfect. Tried to anticipate his moods, to keep him happy. But it was never enough.”

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I force myself to continue. “Five months ago, he beat me so badly I would’ve died had… My son… He attacked back and called for help. If he hadn’t…”

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