Chapter 4
I woke up at 3 a.m.
Sweating, heart racing, from a dream where my husband was standing over the bed, screaming, his hand raised to hit me.
For a second I didn’t know where I was.
Then I smelled the lemon polish, saw the band posters on the wall, and remembered.
I was at dad’s.
I was safe.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand.
The screen lit up.
17 missed calls.
32 text messages.
All from him.
My hands started shaking as I scrolled through them.
I’m sorry baby I was so stressed I didn’t mean it.
You know I love you more than anything.
Come home please I can’t live without you.
Your dad is turning you against me he’s always hated me.
If you don’t come back by tomorrow I’m coming to get you.
You’ll regret this. You’ll both regret this.
The last one made my blood run cold.
A photo.
Of me, taken from the street outside dad’s house, an hour earlier.
I’d been standing in the kitchen, getting a glass of water, the curtains open just a crack.
He’d been watching.
I screamed.
Loud.
Dad was in the room in two seconds, his hair messy, a baseball bat in his hand, eyes wild.
“What? What’s wrong? Is he here?”
I held out my phone.
Couldn’t speak.
Dad took it.
His face went dark as he read the texts, saw the photo.
He didn’t yell.
That calm, terrifying calm was back.
He walked out of the room, phone in hand, and I heard him talking low and sharp to someone on the phone.
The police.
Ten minutes later two officers were sitting in our living room, taking notes.
I told them everything.
The texts.
The photo.
The bruises.
The three years of abuse.
They took photos of my arms, made copies of the texts, gave me a case number.
“We’ll patrol the area tonight,” one of them said, gentle. “And first thing tomorrow, you two go down to the courthouse and file for a temporary restraining order. It’ll keep him away from you, your dad, your house, your work. Everything.”
They left an hour later.
Dad changed the locks on all the doors and windows.
Put a security camera by the front door.
Sat in the armchair by my bed all night, the bat across his lap, watching me sleep.
I didn’t sleep again.
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the texts in my head.
You’ll regret this.
He’d never made a threat like that before.
Not out loud.
Not where someone else could see.
The next morning we were at the courthouse when it opened.
The line was long, full of people with tired eyes, holding papers, holding hands, all of us carrying the same kind of pain.
Dad held my hand the whole time.
Didn’t let go once.
The clerk handed us the forms.
Pages and pages of them, asking for dates, times, details, every single thing he’d done.
My hand shook as I wrote.
I filled three pages.
Could have filled thirty.
When we turned them in, the judge saw us right away.
She looked at the photos of my bruises.
Read the texts.
Looked at me, soft, like she knew exactly what I’d been through.
“Granted,” she said, stamping the papers. “Temporary restraining order for six months. No contact. No phone calls. No texts. No coming within 500 feet of you, your father, your residence, your place of employment. If he violates it, he goes to jail. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
Could barely breathe.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She smiled, sad.
“You don’t have to thank me, honey. Just stay safe. And when this is up, come back and we’ll make it permanent.”
We walked out of the courthouse into the bright morning sun.
The papers were warm in my hand.
Official.
Real.
A line drawn in the sand.
He couldn’t come near me anymore.
Not legally.
But as we walked to the car, I couldn’t shake the cold feeling in my stomach.
He’d never played by the rules before.
Why would he start now?
Dad must have felt me tense.
He squeezed my hand.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m right here. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while I’m breathing.”
I wanted to believe him.
I really did.
But I’d spent three years learning that promises didn’t keep you safe.
Only being careful did.
That night, I was lying in bed when I heard it.
A car door slamming outside.
Then a voice, loud, slurred, yelling my name.
Him.
I froze.
My blood turned to ice.
Dad was out of his chair and down the hall before I could move.
I heard him yell through the front door: “She has a restraining order against you! Leave now or I’m calling the police again!”
The yelling got louder.
Angrier.
Then I heard the police sirens, getting closer, and the car peeled out, tires screeching.
The police came back.
Took another report.
Said they’d pick him up in the morning for violating the order.
When they left, dad came back to my room.
He sat down on the bed, took my hand.
His was shaking a little this time.
“I’m not letting anything happen to you,” he said, like he was promising himself as much as me. “No matter what.”
I looked at him.
Tired.
Scared.
May you like
But still standing between me and the monster.
And for the first time, I thought maybe—just maybe—we’d be okay.
