8. Chapter 8 #3
I roll up my sleeves. “I don’t believe that. Every system can be improved with the right approach.” I pick up the nearest folder, labeled “Donations 2022-?” in hurried handwriting. “Show me where to start.”
Beatrix studies me for a long moment, then she nods. “Alright, Fallinger. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
That night, the secondhand lamp in the corner casts a warm glow across our apartment. I sit cross-legged on the floor, my back against the couch. The children’s soft breathing drifts from their bedroom, the door ajar so I can hear if they need me.
Our small living room has already transformed from the empty shell we first encountered.
Leo’s dinosaur drawings are taped to one wall in a lopsided row.
Meredith’s finger paintings burst with color on another.
The coffee table holds a stack of library books and a mug of tea that’s grown cold while I organized shelter files on my laptop.
I decide that I’ll take work home when I can.
My body aches from sorting through Beatrix’s “disaster zone” for three hours. I accomplished less than I hoped but more than Beatrix expected. And surprisingly, Leo and Meredith didn’t want to leave, but we needed dinner and it wasn’t Sarah’s job to babysit them.
I close my laptop and reach for my phone, remembering the social media post I made before our shelter adventure.
With meeting Beatrix, Sarah’s whirlwind entrance, Leo’s cautious connection with Milo the cat, Meredith’s declaration that one-eyed Cyclops was her new best friend, I haven’t had a chance to check for responses.
My stomach tightens with a familiar anxiety as I open the app. Julian’s voice whispers in my head: “Social media is a waste of time for people with nothing better to do.” It was just one of his many pronouncements that shaped my behavior for years. I push the thought away and tap on my post.
My breath catches. There are dozens of notifications. Comments, likes, shares. More engagement than I thought there would be. I begin reading, slowly scrolling through comment after comment.
“Your natural waves are gorgeous! Wish my hair did that!”
“I spent 15 years straightening my curls because my ex hated them. Been embracing them for 2 years now and never looking back. You’ve got this!”
“I don’t know your story, but I recognize that look in your eyes. The ‘I’m finally done pretending’ look. Stay strong, sister.”
The words blur as unexpected tears fill my eyes. They see me.
I keep reading, mostly women sharing their stories of conforming to others’ expectations and describing the moment they decided to reclaim themselves.
“My husband hated my freckles. Made me wear full-coverage foundation for 7 years. Been divorced 3 months and haven’t worn makeup since. Your post reminded me why.”
“The first thing I did after leaving my controlling ex was dye my hair purple. It was terrible, and I looked like a grape popsicle, but it was MY choice and that made all the difference.”
“Just started my own journey of self-rediscovery after 12 years of marriage to someone who treated me like an accessory. He thought Gucci was enough to keep me quiet. Thank you for making me feel less alone.”
I hadn’t expected this. Truly, I hadn’t thought beyond the simple act of declaring myself. But here, in these responses, is a community I never knew existed, which is women who understand exactly what it means to lose yourself in someone else’s vision and what it takes to find your way back.
One comment in particular catches my attention.
“Thank you for reminding me it’s okay to be myself. I’ve spent so long trying to fit the mold of what everyone else wanted that I almost forgot who I was underneath. Your courage to post your authentic self gave me courage, too.”
My fingers trace the words on the screen, feeling the weight of their truth. For so long, I believed I was alone in my quiet surrender to Julian’s expectations.
But I’m not alone, and that realization fills me with unexpected warmth, spreading from my chest to my fingertips.
All these women, fighting similar battles, reclaiming themselves one brave choice at a time.
I also imagine that one of these women could be Meredith in the future.
God, if she were married to her own version of Julian, I don’t know how I’d feel—and vice versa for Leo.
If he submitted to a Julian, or if he became a Julian, I don’t know how I’d feel or what I would do.
This is right. Leaving was what we all needed.
I lean my head back against the couch, exhaling slowly. I pick up my phone again and type a response to the last comment.
“Thank you for your words. I’m just starting this journey, too. Maybe we can remind each other it’s okay to be ourselves when we forget.”
I hit “Post Comment” without overthinking, without crafting the perfect phrasing, without worrying how it might be perceived. Just me, communicating honestly with another human being.
The children’s artwork on the walls, the secondhand furniture, the shelter’s paperwork waiting on my laptop, none of it fits the life Julian designed. And I absolutely love it.