Page 2 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
I walked into the large and inviting welcome room to find Claire Whitmore sitting stiffly in one of the lobby chairs, her hands clasped as if she were holding herself together.
Fuck, men could be such bastards, bringing us women to these states because of their own insecurities.
“Good morning?” I smiled warmly, announcing myself into the room.
She glanced up, eyes darting nervously, already rehearsing excuses for why she might bolt. I knew that look. I’d seen it too many times. The look of someone who wanted to run but wanted even more to stay.
I walked toward her with a smile that wasn’t polished or professional, just real. “You must be Claire.”
She nodded, her fingers cold when they met mine. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Of course. C’mon, let me show you around.”
We entered the main hall, sunlight pouring through the large windows. The walls were painted in warm, earthy tones and decorated with oversized canvas art from workshops we had held here, along with paintings donated by my best friend Ash from her gallery. I loved how the rugs softened the stone floors, giving the space a cozy, warm feeling. Each corner had a small, intentional touch—flowers, baskets of blankets, or books stacked casually as if someone had just stepped away.
“This isn’t a shelter,” Claire murmured. “It feels like…”
“A home?” I finished for her. “That is the intention, anyway.”
We passed another playroom for the itty-bitty kids. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto a courtyard where pumpkins were lined up, waiting to be carved. Inside, the children tumbled over beanbags and stuffed animals while a volunteer read from a storybook.
Claire’s hand tightened on her bag strap. “My daughter would love this.”
“She’d have it every day if you wanted her here.”
Her chin trembled before she looked away.
I kept us moving to keep her mind moving and not locking up in fear of change.
We passed the soundproofed, cozy counseling rooms, and around the corner, we reached a small medical clinic with two nurses and a doctor working in rotating shifts. Finally, we arrived at the private suites: queen beds with memory foam mattresses and duvets, small kitchenettes, and double doors opening to alabaster balconies overlooking the gardens. Each vacant room always had a welcome basket on the nightstand, filled with toiletries, snacks, and even a journal, and the spa-like bathrooms were stocked with self-care bathing products. It felt like a women’s retreat that offered a vacation no one wanted to leave. That was a key point. No one was eager to leave the comforts of their own home, whether big or small. It was a frightening feeling, all while trying to reclaim their life from their abuser.
Claire stepped inside, blinking like she didn’t trust it. “I thought—I thought it would be rooms of bunk beds. Shared bathrooms. Lines for dinner.”
“Most are,” I said, “but not here.”
She touched the duvet, “This is too much.”
“It’s the bare minimum of what you deserve.”
She swallowed hard. “You don’t understand. My husband is already telling people I’m leaving him for another man because I cheated on him, and that I’m the one destroying our marriage. If I left and came here, it would only?—”
“It would cost him the control he has over you.” My voice was steady, no room for bullshit. “That’s what this is about. Not you. Him. Abusers rewrite the story to make themselves the victim,and people eat that shit up because it’s easier than facing the truth.”
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t look away.
“Listen, you don’t have to defend yourself to the world right now,” I said, softer. “You don’t owe anyone your reputation, your excuses, or your shame. You owe yourself safety. You owe your daughter a life where she sees her mom stand up and walk away from abuse. That’s it.”
Her lip trembled, but she shook her head. “I can’t.”
I hated those words more than anything…I can’t.They usually meantI don’t want to,orI won’t. But I understood why she felt that way. Accepting change—leaving the comfort of your environment, abusive or not—was terrifying. Trauma bonds gripped us in the easiest places, feeding on our fear of change and our desperate craving for familiarity.
So, I wouldn’t pressure her or be bold about anything. I would just gently nudge her along, understanding how difficult her decision was.
I nodded once. “Okay.”
She blinked at me, startled.
I smiled reassuringly at her. “You’re just not ready,” I told her, “and that’s okay. Leaving isn’t one step, Claire. It’s a hundred tiny ones. You already took one of the hardest just by walking in here today.”
