The idea of a few hours to myself after such a stressful, busy day sounds better and better the more we talk about.
How long has it been since I read my book on the living room couch instead of under my covers with a book light?
When’s the last time I made dinner for myself while blasting my boy bands playlist?
Or actually made it to the gym or mall after a shift?
I can’t even remember doing anything that wasn’t taking care of Evee, helping out Ava, or going to work since being released from the hospital last year.
“I guess I could find something to do,” I conclude softly, but my eyes go to my feet as a trickle of guilt drops into my stomach when the words leave my mouth.
“Hey,” Ava says, waiting to say more until I look back up at her. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Feel bad about looking forward to a night all to yourself.”
“How bad is it that I can’t remember the last time I had one?” The question hangs between us for a few moments. Forget not being able to remember doing anything for myself in the last year—I don’t think I can remember doing anything for myselfever.
For as long as I can remember, everything I did was for someone else. Whether it was trying to cheer up my mom after she had a fight with my dad, or helping her pack while hoping she’d take me with her when she left.
Whether it was lying to my teachers about where I got the bruises, or pasting the biggest fakest smile on my face so they wouldn’t call Child Protective Services, for 18 years, I lived to do anything and everything I could to avoid my father’s anger—and his hands.
The only thing I think I’ve ever truly done for myself is leave that house and go to college, something I did all on my own.
But I ended up leaving one monster to find another.
The first time Trevor hit me, it was like I was thrown back into my childhood, always walking on eggshells, wishing I could make myself disappear, wishing on every star outside my bedroom window to get me out.
I was back in my bedroom where brand new toys and clothes would appear the next day, along with the promise of ice cream for dinner and that he just lost his temper for a split second; that it was the alcohol; that it was an accident; that it would never happen again.
As if his presents and promises were enough of an apology for the abuse the night before.
With Trevor, I was trapped.Again. Stuck in the constant cycle of another man’s highs and lows. The highs that made me think it was the last time, and the lows that reminded me there never would be.
Ava closes the distance between us, wrapping her arm that isn’t holding Evee around me, pulling me in. My head finds her shoulder, and the embrace brings me back to where I am now. I feel Evee’s little hands wrap around the pieces of hair loose from my braid.
I’m not in that house.
I’m not with Trevor.
I’m here with my best friend and my daughter—I’m safe.
“I wish I had the right words to say, but I don’t. But I am here for you, Rumi. No one will ever hurt you ever again,” Ava whispers, and the words are exactly what I need to hear.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I whisper back.
“Good thing you’ll never have to know.” Ava loosens her hold on me. Evee begins to babble, her hands now fisting my hair and pulling.
“Ow,” I say with a chuckle, grabbing her hand and carefully helping her unfurl her fists. “Someone’s excited for swim class.” The emotions begin to dissipate as Ava laughs too, both of us looking at Evee as she tries to bounce in Ava’s hold.
“Alright, girlfriend, we hear you. Enough with the heavy stuff,” Ava jokes. “But before we go, tell your mom to enjoy her night to herself.”
Evee makes a noise that is half-laugh and half-cry.
“Okay then,” Ava mumbles, and then walks over to the entryway and slips her feet into her shoes. She turns to look at me. “ Remember, you deserve this.”
I nod, internalizing the words to push out the guilt.
