CHAPTER 13
S itting 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.
“Last night,” I say, wiping tears from my cheeks with trembling fingers, “I found out that he forced his way into his own sister’s house and took off with her phone. She had to get a new one and she called to let me know.”
Her eyes flash with anger and she takes her glasses off dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her cardigan, but her voice remains steady, calming, like a lighthouse in a storm. “None of this is your fault, Bailey. That man’s actions are his own, every single one of them.”
“I should’ve left sooner. I shouldn’-”
“No ma’am,” she interrupts, her tone brooking no argument. “You left when you could, when you found the strength. That’s what matters.” She stands up and walks to her roll top desk in the corner of the room, pulling out a crisp business card. “Now, this here is Dale Loxely. He’s done some filings for me in the past. He owns his own firm up in Dallas. He’s the best bulldog in town and he’s going to help you get free of that man legally.”
I stare at the card, my throat tight with emotion.
“Ms. Lucy, I can’t afford-”
“I didn’t ask if you could afford it.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m taking care of it, and I won’t hear another word about it. Dale will get your paperwork started. That man won’t be able to come within five hundred yards of you or that precious little girl.”
Fresh tears fall as I stare at the business card in my hand, the embossed letters blurring through my tears. A weight twists uncomfortably in my chest. A feeling I know too well. The weight of being a burden.
“This is too much. I can’t let you do this.” I push the card back across the table. “You’ve already given us a place to stay. You’re helping with Sophie… I’m already taking up too much of your life.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t take the card. “Taking up space? Bailey, that’s nonsense.”
“But it’s your money, your time. I should be fixing this myself.” My voice cracks. “It’s my mess.”
“Sweetheart.” She puts her glasses back on and fixes me with a look that stops my protest cold. “First of all, this isn’t a mess you made. It’s something that happened to you.”
I look down at my hands, still trembling slightly.
“Second, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with and no children of my own to spend it on.” She pushes the card back toward me. “And third, nobody, and I mean nobody, gets through this life without help.”
“But-”
“Did you think I got where I am all by myself?” She gestures around her kitchen. “This house? My business? All the good things in my life came with someone else’s fingerprints on them. That’s just how living works.”
I bite my lip, fighting against years of being told I was too needy, too much, always wanting things I didn’t deserve.
“The day might come when you can help someone else who needs it,” she continues. “That’s how we balance the scales. Not by refusing help when we need it most.”
A small sob escapes me as I finally take the card, holding it like something precious.
“Now please drink your tea before it gets cold,” she says, reaching across to pat my hand. “And remember, accepting help isn’t weakness. Sometimes it’s the bravest thing you can do.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You thank me by living your life and being happy,” she says simply, then a small smile plays at her lips, bringing warmth to her eyes. “Speaking of happiness, how was that date with our handsome veterinarian last night?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, grateful for the change in subject, tears slowing.
“It was… nice.”
“Nice is a good start.” She says.
“He was a gentleman the whole time.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” she says, settling back in her chair.
I trace the rim of my mug again. “He didn’t push,” I say quietly. “Our hands touched, and he… let it be my choice to pull away or not.”
She nods, knowing that it’s more than what I’ve said.
“I haven’t told him about Matt,” I admit. “I snapped at him when he asked what brought us here. I was sure he’d be angry or push for answers, but he just… apologized for bringing it up.”
“Some men know how to respect boundaries, honey.”
I stare into my tea, watching ripples form as my hand trembles slightly. “I felt calm. Not quite safe, but…” I search for the right words. “Like maybe I could be, someday.”
The realization sits strange in my chest. After years of walking on eggshells, of flinching at sudden movements, of apologizing for existing. This feeling is foreign, like I might be worthy of soft things again.
“I keep waiting for him to criticize me or get frustrated,” I confess. “But he didn’t.”
She reaches across the table then and pats my hand. “Not all men are like Matt, Bailey. Some are worth taking a chance on.”