Page 52 of Finders Keepers

“Coming, baby!” I wrap myself in a towel, pushing down the fear and plastering on a smile. “Ready for breakfast?”

She stands in the living room, hair wild from sleep, rubbing her eyes. “Can I have cookies?”

“How about we save those for after dinner? You want to go have breakfast at Ms. Lucy’s”

“Pancakes?” She asks, her eyes brightening

“I think so.” I say as I lead her into our bedroom.

As I help her get dressed for the day, I keep glancing at my phone. No unknown numbers. No strange texts. But the fear sits heavy in my stomach, a constant weight I’ve learned to carry.

At least we’re safe for now. Ms. Lucy’s house is visible from our window, solid and reassuring in the morning light. Sophie’s here, whole and happy, humming to herself as she pulls on her socks.

We’re okay. We have to be okay.

But I know sleep won’t come easy tonight either. Or any night, until I’m sure Matt can’t find us. Until I know for certain that the life we’re building here won’t come crashing down around us.

For now, though, I have to focus on getting us ready for the day, on putting one foot in front of the other. I have to be the mom she needs, not the terrified woman who spent all night cleaning baseboards.

“Ready for breakfast, sweet girl?”

She nods, reaching for my hand. Her small fingers wrap around mine, trusting, loving. For her, I can be brave. For her, I can face anything.

Even the ghost of Matt that haunts my thoughts.

Sitting at Ms. Lucy’s kitchen table, my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of chamomile tea that I haven’t touched, watching the delicate wisps of steam curl into the air.

I trace my finger around the rim of the mug, rehearsing words that keep tangling in my throat.

“You’ve barely touched your tea, honey and you barely ate breakfast, is everything okay?” Ms. Lucy slides into the chair across from me, her green eyes gentle behind her dark-rimmed glasses.

“Sorry, I’m just…” My voice trails off. The words are there. Matt’s rage, the bruises I hid, the night we fled, but they stick like thorns.

Ms. Lucy folds her weathered hands on the table. “Take your time.”

I draw a deep breath. “The reason Sophie and I came here…it wasn’t just for a fresh start.”

“I figured as much.” Her voice holds no judgment.

“Her father, Matt, he…” My hands start trembling. I press them flat against the table to steady them. “He hurt me. More than once. And I was afraid that eventually, he’d hurt Sophie too.”

The silence stretches between us. My heart hammers against my ribs. Will she think I’m exaggerating? That I somehow deserved it? That I’m not fit to be Sophie’s mother?

“Bailey, look at me.”

I force myself to meet her gaze, bracing for disbelief or disappointment.

“I believe you.” Three simple words that break something loose inside me.

“You don’t think I’m-” The question catches in my throat.

“What? Lying? Overreacting?” She shakes her head firmly. “Sugar, I’ve lived long enough to know what courage looks like. Takes a mountain of it to protect your child the way you’re doing.”

I blink rapidly, fighting back tears but they spill over anyways. “I was so scared you’d think—”

“The only thing I think is that you’re exactly where you need to be right now.”

I give her a nod and start explaining, and once I begin, everything spills out like water from a broken dam, years of pain rushing forth in an unstoppable torrent. I tell her about meeting Matt in college, how charming he was at first with his winning smile and sweet gestures, how the controlling behavior started so gradually I barely noticed. First with little comments about the clothes I was wearing, then who I spent time with, until suddenly my whole world had shrunk to be just him. The first time he hit me was shortly after Sophie was born, when I was still healing from the delivery and too exhausted to make dinner the way he liked it. He said he would never do it again, but he did, again and again. I tell her about the arguments that would start over nothing, a misplaced can of Copenhagen, dinner being five minutes late, a phone call from an old friend, how he would twist my words until somehow everything was my fault. The beatings that followed and the cycles that never ended but only grew worse with time.

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