Months later, I moved into a small apartment with help from a local nonprofit. I returned to part-time work at the community center where I’d worked before marriage. It wasn’t simple—there were sleepless nights, doctor visits, legal meetings—but each morning, pushing Ava’s stroller down the sidewalk, the world looked brighter than I remembered.
When the court date came, Ethan tried to appear polished and remorseful. But there were medical records. My notes. The messages. The judge extended the restraining order and mandated monitoring.
I didn’t walk out of the courthouse feeling triumphant.
I walked out feeling steady.
There was a path in front of me. And I was finally walking it.
