The house was finally quiet.
But inside our bedroom, my daughter’s crying had not stopped.
Chloe was curled against my chest, her tiny hands gripping the fabric of my shirt as though letting go would somehow make everything worse.
I stroked her hair slowly.
“Mom,” she whispered again, “can we really leave?”
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had told myself that things would improve.
Continue reading on next page…