10. Zoey
ZOEY
R oland’s excitement was like a live wire zipping through the room as he recounted every detail of his day. He bounced from one foot to the other, buzzing with an energy I’d never seen before. His enthusiasm was infectious, and a smile quickly spread across my face.
“Mom, did you see me? With the punching bag?” He beamed up at me, his fists flying through the air as he demonstrated the punches he’d been taught. “And Noah says I’m really good.”
I nodded, my heart swelling with pride and an ache I couldn’t quite name.
“I always think you’re good, but Noah would know best,” I said, remembering the wealth of information I’d seen online.
“If he says you’re going to be amazing, then he means it.
” I dodged a particularly exuberant fist. “But listen to me, kiddo, we need to keep the punches in the ring. Remember what Noah told you? Unless you’re in the class and one of the other instructors is there, no boxing outside the gym. ”
His initial excitement faltered. “You’re not gonna let me go back, are you? It’s like when I wanted to play baseball, and Dad said I wasn’t allowed because it wasn’t safe and sports were stupid.”
“Your father was wrong, Ro,” I said with a sharp sting of regret. My son had already missed out on so much and was growing up so fast.
I should have left sooner.
George’s crippling paranoia had clipped Roland’s wings and kept him from being a kid, from having friends.
Neither of us could leave the house without his express permission.
He’d claimed it was for our safety; that there were people who’d want to hurt us to get to him.
It had nothing to do with our safety—it was about exerting control.
He wanted us under his watchful eye so he could monitor and dictate our every move.
“Sports aren’t stupid,” I said, hoping to rewrite the narrative George had imposed on us. “They’re about teamwork. About having fun and staying healthy. You can go back.”
Roland fist-bumped the air. “Yay! Can we go back tomorrow, Mom?” His eagerness was a balm to the guilt, a reminder that things were changing for the better.
“Of course, we can.” I ruffled his hair, feeling his tension ebb away under my touch. “We’re free to do as we please now.”
“Really free?” His question was tentative, as if testing the truth of my words.
“Really free,” I confirmed, and this time, the smile I offered him was as much for myself as it was for him.
“Will I have to work for Dad when I grow up?”
The innocent question sent a shiver down my spine.
“No.” The word came out more forceful than I intended. “You will choose your own path, Roland. One full of things you love.”
“Like boxing?”
“Like boxing,” I confirmed, pushing away the image of George sneering at the idea of his son debasing himself with those he thought beneath him.
Later that evening, after Roland had drifted off to sleep, dreams of punches and victories no doubt filling his head, I found myself alone with my thoughts.
No, I wasn’t entirely alone. Guilt kept me company, a harsh inner voice that nagged like a relentless predator, reminding me of all the ways I’d let my son down by not freeing him from the clutches of George’s oppressive rule.
As I dissected the past, my mind replayed scenes like a broken record, each loop inflicting fresh wounds.
George had been persuasive in his argument that our son needed a traditional family, with both a mother and father.
At first, I’d been unwilling to see the abuse for what it was.
Then I was so deeply entrenched that I couldn’t get out.
The shame was like a festering wound, eating away at my conscience.
In my own way, I was dealing with a crushing uproar of new emotions.
With the constant worry for our safety, I was in a never-ending loop of fight or flight, hyperaware of every sound and movement around me.
It was exhausting. There were moments when I felt disconnected from reality, as if I was observing my own life from a distance.
The facade of pretending everything was fine was becoming impossible to maintain.
I remembered Heather’s suggestion of therapy. Perhaps I needed to look into it. Despite my aversion to it, I had to confront the fact that both Ro and I were victims. Only by acknowledging that could I begin to move forward and truly allow myself to heal.
“Zoey? You okay?” Heather’s voice startled me.
My body quivered from the memories I’d been reflecting on, so raw that tears immediately welled up and spilled over.
“Hey, it’s okay, just let it out.” Heather pulled me into her arms and stroked my back to the rhythm of my sobs. There was no pressure to talk, just quiet understanding.
When there were no more tears to shed, I took a deep breath, air filling my lungs as I silently urged myself to pull it together. “You were right earlier. The self-defense classes are great, but they’re not enough.”
“Zoey, you’ve been through hell,” she whispered. “It’s okay to ask for help.”
“Can you recommend a therapist? And would you come with me? To the sessions, I mean. Just to be there...”
“Absolutely. Whatever you need, I’m here for you,” she promised, squeezing my hand.
“Thank you.” The words didn’t quite express the gratitude swelling in my chest. “I don’t know what I would have done without you and Sam.”
Heather’s hold tightened. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re my sister, Zoey. You and Ro are family. That bond can never be broken. We stick together.”
“I stayed away for so long. Shut you out,” I said, pulling back just enough to see her face. The relentless ache of all the years of isolation refused to go away. It was yet another thing to feel guilty about.
“Stop it. None of that was your fault,” she said, her gaze fierce and protective. “George is the villain here. He’s the one who did this, not you.”
“Still—”
Heather shook her head, silencing me before I could continue. “Still nothing. He’s the villain in the story, not you. You’re both here now, and that’s what matters. You’re breaking free. I’m so damn proud of you, Zoey. It takes guts to do that. You were resourceful, and you did it.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I fought to swallow it down. Tears burned at my sinuses, but I refused to let them fall. I was done crying. I wouldn’t shed another tear over him.
“I don’t understand why it took so long for me to snap out of it. Why didn’t I act before it escalated?”
“What do you mean?”
“That day…” I drank deeply from my water bottle, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
“He’d had a bad day, something to do with his business.
He’d never hit me in front of Ro before.
Shout, scream, call me vulgar names, but he’d never lifted a hand to me in Ro’s presence.
He was in a temper, looking for a reason.
It could have been anything...” The memory rushed over me, vivid and violent—the shock, the pain, Ro’s horrified screams.
“You’ll feel better if you tell me,” Heather said. “It’ll get easier every time you do.”
“He hit me. Our son was right there. And Ro... he screamed at his father, told him to leave me alone, to stop hurting me.” My voice cracked, but I pushed through.
“George turned on him and pulled his fist back. But I couldn’t let that happen.
I jumped in front of Ro and took the punch myself.
” I touched my lip, remembering the sting, the taste of blood.
“Zoey, that’s terrible.” Heather gripped my hand as if she could squeeze away the memory.
“Yeah. Something clicked that night. Until that moment, I’d tolerated the abuse, but I never thought he’d hurt Ro. Realizing he could be so cruel to his own flesh and blood woke me up. I knew I had to leave and protect my son.”
“You’ve no idea how proud I am of you, Zoey. It takes courage to make that stand.”
“Courage or desperation?” I asked, a bitter laugh escaping me.Whatever it had been, it had given me the push I needed to get in touch with my family. Despite five years without contact, Sam and Heather hadn’t hesitated to help me. “Either way, it got us here,” I said.
“Where you can start over and never look back,” Heather said, giving me another squeeze before letting go. “Together, we’ll make sure of it. You and Ro are safe now. We’ll keep it that way.”
“Yeah, we will.” I frowned. “No boy should have to protect their mom from his own father, Heather. I hope I haven’t messed Ro up by not being brave enough to leave sooner.”
Heather’s fists clenched at her sides, a storm brewing across her face. “I swear, if I ever get my hands on that son of a bitch, he’s in for a world of pain.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “I think I’ll start by ripping his dick off and making him eat it—a small taste of what’s to come.”
The ferocity in my sister’s tone should’ve been terrifying, but I burst out laughing. “Heather!” I gasped out, chuckling. My hand flew up to cover my mouth as if to hold the laughter in, but I couldn’t stop.
“That’s what I was hoping for,” Heather said, a triumphant smile softening the hard lines of her anger. “Haven’t heard that sound in a long time.”
My laughter began to ebb, but my smile remained.
Roland burst into the room like a ball of energy.
“Auntie Heather, you’re home. I was waiting.
Will you come to boxing tomorrow to see me?
Can she come, Mom? Please, please, please!
” He said it all in a single breath. With my back to him, I brushed away the tears on my cheeks, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
I didn’t think Roland would hurt family, but the memory of him attempting to defend me from George, then pushing a boy down at the park… It wasn’t a jump to imagine he’d react aggressively if he thought he was protecting me.
When Noah had coaxed Roland into telling him his feelings were too big for his body, I’d been floored.