After My Husband Beat Me, I Fled With Our Daughters

The penthouse smelled different. Like someone else's perfume. Like I didn't belong there anymore.

I stood in the marble foyer holding a bag of books. Picture books for Eva. A chapter book for Amelie. I'd spent an hour at the bookstore choosing them. I couldn't afford an hour at the bookstore. I bought them anyway.

Ashlyn opened the door. She wore a cream sweater that hugged her pregnant stomach. Her hair was pulled back. She smiled like we were friends.

"Sienna. Come in."

I stepped inside. My home for eight years. Now I needed permission to enter.

The girls were in the living room. Eva saw me first. She ran. Her little legs pumped hard against the floor. I dropped to my knees and caught her.

"Mama!"

I held her so tight. She smelled like the lavender soap I used to buy. Someone else bought it now.

"I missed you, baby."

"I missed you more."

Amelie stood by the window. She didn't run. She was eleven now. Old enough to understand that running to me might make things worse. But her eyes were red.

Madison sat on the couch with her arms crossed. "This is stupid," she announced. "Why can't Mom just stay?"

Ashlyn settled into the armchair. The one that used to be mine. "Your mother is visiting. That's what the court said."

"The court is stupid," Madison shot back.

"Madison." I kept my voice gentle. "It's okay."

"It's not okay!" She was ten. Still young enough to say the true thing out loud.

Nylah appeared from the hallway. She was holding her sketchbook against her chest like a shield. She didn't say anything. She just climbed into my lap next to Eva.

I had two hours. One hundred twenty minutes. Then I had to leave.

I read to them. Eva curled against my left side. Nylah against my right. Madison sat close enough that her knee pressed against mine. Amelie stayed by the window, but she was listening. I knew she was listening.

Ashlyn scrolled through her phone. She was always there. Every visit. Watching. The court order said "supervised visitation." Like I was dangerous. Like I might hurt my own children.

I turned pages. I did voices for the characters. I smiled when Eva giggled. I acted like my chest wasn't caving in.

After the first book, Madison asked, "When are you coming home?"

I smoothed her hair. "I'm working on it, sweetheart."

"Dad says you can't take care of us anymore."

My hand stopped moving. "That's not true."

"He says you don't have money. He says you live in a bad place."

I looked at Ashlyn. She was still scrolling. Still smiling.

"I live in Brooklyn," I said carefully. "It's small. But it's safe."

"Can we see it?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

Because your father's lawyers are using my poverty against me. Because the studio is two hundred square feet and has one window. Because I can barely afford groceries.

"Soon," I said instead.

Amelie finally spoke. "He's lying." Her voice was flat. Hard. "Dad's lying about everything."

Ashlyn looked up. "Amelie. That's not appropriate."

"You're not my mother." Amelie's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "Stop pretending you are."

The room went silent.

Ashlyn's smile thinned. "I'm going to be your brother's mother. That makes us family."

"You're a liar," Amelie said. "And everyone knows it."

I stood up fast. "Amelie. Come here."

She walked over. Slowly. I pulled her aside. Lowered my voice.

"I know you're angry. I'm angry too. But you can't talk to her like that."

"Why not? She talks to you like you're nothing."

My throat closed. I touched her cheek. "Because it'll make things harder. For all of us. Please, baby. I need you to be careful."

Her eyes filled. "I hate him."

"I know."

"I hate her more."

I pulled her into my arms. She was shaking. Eleven years old and shaking with rage she had no way to release.

The two hours ended. Ashlyn stood. "Time's up."

Eva started crying immediately. She wrapped her arms around my neck. "No. No no no."

"I'll be back soon," I whispered. "I promise."

"When?"

"Thursday."

"That's so long!"

Four days. Ninety-six hours. It felt like years.

I peeled her arms off gently. Madison grabbed my hand. Nylah pressed her sketchbook into my arms. "Take it," she whispered. "So you remember."

I looked down. She'd drawn our family. All six of us. But she'd erased Marcos. There was just a blank space where he used to be.

I left the penthouse. I walked to the subway. I sat on the train and opened Nylah's sketchbook.

Every page was a house. Different sizes. Different colors. But every single one had the same thing missing. No doors. No way in. No way out.

I closed the book. I pressed it against my chest. I rode the train to Brooklyn and climbed four flights of stairs to a studio that smelled like mildew and someone else's cigarettes.

Dad was waiting outside my door. He held a bag of groceries. His face was gray.

"You didn't have to come," I said.

"Yes, I did."

We went inside. He unpacked the groceries in silence. Bread. Peanut butter. Apples. Things that didn't need cooking. He knew I didn't have a real kitchen.

He sat on the only chair. I sat on the bed. The mattress dipped under me.

"I got a letter today," I said. "From Marcos's lawyers."

He looked up.

"They're filing to reduce my visitation. They say this place isn't safe. They say I can't provide adequate care."

Dad's hands curled into fists. "He's using my failure against you."

"Dad—"

"I destroyed you." His voice cracked. "I built everything and I lost it and now you're paying for it."

"You didn't do this. Marcos did."

"I couldn't stop him."

I didn't argue. Because he was right. And we both knew it.

He left an hour later. I locked the door. I lay on the bed. I stared at the ceiling.

I thought about Amelie's face. Madison's anger. Nylah's doorless houses. Eva's arms around my neck.

I thought about Marcos's lawyers. The motion to restrict. The slow, methodical process of erasing me from my daughters' lives.

I thought about the phone number I'd kept for ten years. The one I'd never called. The one I swore I'd never need.

I pulled out my phone. I stared at the contact. Calum Richardson.

My hands shook.

I put the phone down.

I picked it up again.

I pressed call.

It rang once. Twice.

Then a voice I hadn't heard in a decade. Deep. Steady. Certain.

"Sienna."

I started crying. I couldn't help it.

"I need help," I whispered.

Silence. Then:

"I'm coming. And I'm bringing everything I have."