Firefly Wishes (Firefly Cove #1)

Prologue

What a beautiful thing it is, to be able to stand tall and say, “I fell apart, and I survived.”

-Unknown

The sounds of slamming doors, frustrated shouts echoing through the hallway, and the occasional drunken stumble to the bedroom were a familiar soundtrack to my life.

I’d grown accustomed to the sounds of impending doom.

I never imagined I’d live to see thirty; it always seemed like just an illusion.

Year after year, the same hollow promise repeated itself: “Just one more year,” a mantra that numbed the ache of unending struggle.

It became a relentless internal battle, first for a month, then a week, a day, an hour, and finally just another minute, each increment a struggle against the urge to give up.

The inevitability of death felt like a familiar weight, a constant companion.

With fervent hope, I pleaded to any higher power that might hear my prayers to grant me refuge.

See, when each day brings unbearable suffering and agony, death doesn’t seem so bad. It seems almost peaceful.

For years, I tiptoed through life, each step measured and cautious, the silence heavy with unspoken tensions.

I prayed every single day for it to end.

With each passing day bringing no relief, the hope for divine intervention dwindled, the silence of the heavens a heavy weight on my soul.

After all the years of unimaginable suffering, I craved escape; anything was preferable to this existence.

My only comfort was the subtle, persistent fluttering in my belly, a fragile, insistent beat of life.

Each night, I whispered my hopes to it under the cover of darkness.

I shared the daily beauty, whispering promises of a brighter tomorrow.

All while silently praying for it all to end.

Yet, this child was my salvation. Realistically, he couldn’t hurt me if he knew, right?

Dreams, like boundless oceans, hold vast, uncharted wishes.

Another day has passed, the sun setting, casting long shadows, and I’m still here, breathing.

The shift from living to merely surviving wasn’t a sudden event, but rather a slow, creeping erosion of comfort and security.

It probably started around the time that the drinking got heavier.

His tongue grew looser, his morals faded from gold to grey, and his hits got harder.

I’ve been counting myself lucky lately. Discovering my pregnancy seemed to sober him; an unexpected, tense quiet replaced the familiar sting of his blows.

Until his verbal assaults escalated, a torrent of insults and accusations.

But at least I knew those wouldn’t kill me.

I’ve grown accustomed to blocking out the insults.

Whore, slut, gold-digger, stupid, useless, worthless, hopeless, and pretty much every other word in the English language with the ending of ‘less’.

Yet, I didn’t feel ‘less’. I felt ‘full’.

Mainly, I felt hopeful. I hoped that one day I’d be free.

I’d make it out. We would make it out. Together, this little one and I will shatter the bonds of this living nightmare and carve our destiny free from this hell.

I’ll fight for improvement, sacrificing everything if necessary, for this child’s sake.

I’d taken to calling it Squish. Squish seemed fitting, seeing as how I’m having to squish into my jeans, it’s squishing on my bladder, and everything was a new level of squishy.

I know I shouldn’t have given it a name.

I don’t even know how far along I am. He refuses to take me to the doctor.

The simple act of giving it a name fills me with a quiet hope that everything will be alright, a small comfort in the face of uncertainty.

This darkness hints at eventual light. I’m holding onto that light every single day.

Twenty weeks. Twenty entire weeks of Squish and I.

Dean finally decided I needed to be seen by a doctor.

He invented an excuse for the OB, saying we had just moved and hadn’t yet transferred our medical records–the hushed tones of the clinic a stark contrast to the urgency in his voice.

I’m not sure if they bought it; however, their lack of follow-up questions hinted at their acceptance.

He could be awfully believable; his words were carefully chosen, and his expression was perfectly controlled.

His heartfelt confession of love filled me with a sense of certainty, and in that moment, I was a believer.

His words, raw and defiant, that we didn’t need my parents’ approval, that it was just us against the world, convinced me.

Convinced by his assurance of pulling out, I trusted him and opted not to use a condom.

Belief, I’m learning, is a dangerous thing. I had a sheltered childhood, fostering a belief in human goodness. Though I remained oblivious to others’ shortcomings.

The doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender.

Dean answered for me and said we did. Initially, I was hesitant to hear the baby’s sex, but the doctor’s announcement, “It’s a girl,” released a silent torrent of tears.

I realized then, I had to do better. I needed to keep this little girl safe for all the times that I wasn’t.

My responsibility was to provide her with happiness, the comfort of security, and the steady ground of stability in her life. I needed to get out.

We named her Charlie. We settled on that name, though I’m still not sure why.

If I were to ask Dean, he would likely give some philosophical justification for the name.

I’m even more sure that it’s a name he picked out at a strip joint with his buddies.

I’m going to put on my rose-colored glasses and imagine him, country club blazer still on, sipping seltzer water after a game of golf, casually paging through a baby name book. His brow furrowed in concentration.

Charlie is the sweetest and most perfect baby; her soft skin and tiny fingers are a constant delight.

She took to feeding like a champ, thank goodness.

Dean made it clear that formula was not an option.

I’m sure it’s because we can’t afford it on his meager salary from the quarry.

All the books I read said that breastfeeding was best for the baby, anyway.

I’m not sure how we got so lucky, but she’s a sound sleeper.

The nightly yelling, slamming doors, and thrown objects from Dean likely taught her to make earplugs before she was even born. I don’t blame her.

From my seat in the recliner, the silence pressed down on me, and my gaze fell on her, a heavy ache settling in my chest. I find myself constantly astounded at how tiny everything about her is.

I run my fingers down her button nose and watch as her eyelashes flutter open.

She’s so alert. At two weeks old, her intense gaze feels like she can see straight into my soul, piercing through me with her innocent eyes.

This must be the experience people describe: that breathtaking moment when you look into your child’s eyes, the warmth of their gaze melting away all other thoughts and concerns.

She’s perfect and all mine. I resign myself to the harsh reality that it’s us against the world, a lonely battle against insurmountable odds.

This girl deserves a life filled with joy, laughter, and love, and I will make sure she has it.