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Escaping Illusions

By Therese Heckenkamp

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It had to be tonight. I’d waited far too many years already.

My mind processed my impulsive plan, paying little attention to the bedtime story I was reading my daughter.

“No, that’s not what it says, Mommy. You skipped the best part.”

Ella, my ever-observant six-year-old, pointed to the page and recited the words so sweetly it made my heart ache. “‘And the princess married the prince and they lived happily ever after.’”

The statement soured my stomach, but Ella sighed contentedly beside me on the bed.

“How’d I miss that?” I whispered past a catch in my throat. “Silly me.”

Lying, misleading book.

She didn’t marry the prince, I wanted to say. He was not really the nice man he pretended to be. The princess was smart. She took care of herself and lived safely ever after.

What more could anyone want?

It sure beat waiting around to be rescued from a fire-breathing dragon. What nonsense.

But Ella loved it. She was innocent, trusting.

I’d do anything to preserve that.

I closed the book, set it on her nightstand, and dimmed her rose lamp to a gentle glow. Still not dim enough to blot out the ugly hole in her pink wall.

“Mommy?” Ella said. “Don’t forget prayers.”

I patted her hand. “We won’t.” We’d need them more than ever tonight.

“Angel of God, my guardian dear . . .” Ella started with her favorite prayer, then went on to ask Jesus for sweet dreams and snow.

“And make Daddy nice,” she added, almost as an afterthought. She plucked my sleeve. Insecurities flickered like dark moths behind her big eyes. “Sleep with me tonight?”

“Of course.” I snuggled down beside her. She didn’t have to know I wouldn’t be closing my eyes.

She touched my cheek, fingers feather soft, hesitant on my fresh bruise. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Not much. I’d had worse.

Why’d you make me do that, Brook? Why?

Blocking the memory of his voice, I stroked Ella’s blond hair back from her face and squeezed her shoulder gently. “How about you?”

“A little.” She curled against me. “Daddy said he was sorry.”

He always did.

“He said he didn’t mean to hurt us.”

I heard the question in her voice. Her need for me to confirm we’d never encounter that scary version of him again.

I understood her need to believe it.

I used to believe it, made all the excuses.

It was harder to hide his blowups now that she was older. But her getting caught in the violence—this was a first.

It had to be the last. My hands fisted. I was done making excuses.

At twenty-nine, I couldn’t keep myself safe. Why had I believed I could protect her?

Whether he’d meant to hurt us or not, he had. That’s what counted.

“Don’t worry, honey. He won’t ever do that again.” I’d make certain.

Satisfied, her eyes drooped and she sucked her thumb, a habit I thought she’d broken. Her breathing turned steady, soothing. I waited.

Listened.

Waited some more.

But Connor’s footsteps never creaked up the stairs. I could just make out the low hum of the TV downstairs. Good. He’d likely fall asleep on the couch, pretzel crumbs on his lap and a beer can on the side table.

At midnight, I eased off the mattress and unzipped Ella’s ladybug backpack, then slid in clothes, underwear, a hairbrush, and her favorite stuffed animal.

I crept to the master bedroom and tugged my own backpack from behind out-of-season clothing—the bag I’d used for one semester of college before I’d dropped out and shackled myself to Connor.

I added essentials and the envelope of cash I’d slowly accumulated over the last four years. I’d tucked away the first bill after that first hit, hoping I would someday have the guts—the sense—to do this.

How shameful that it had taken Ella getting hurt to spur me to action.

Leaving the backpack in the closet, I crept down to the kitchen. Numbers glowed on the microwave clock. Silver handles protruded from the chunky knife block on the counter. From here I could see Connor’s dark shape sprawled on the couch, TV lights flickering over him, confirming his eyes were closed. Still, I took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. Took a sip.

“Connor?” I moved closer. Had to be sure. “Are you awake?”

Too bad he wasn’t the kind of man who snored.

“Connor?”

The lack of response would have to be enough.

Time to go.

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