Mom’s hand is warm around mine, steady in the way only a mother’s hand can be. She doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t pull. She just stands with me at the edge of the room while my breathing catches up to the moment.
“You ready?” she asks softly.
No, I want to say.
Not even a little.
But readiness has never been something I get to wait for.
“I am,” I say anyway, and my voice doesn’t shake as much as I expect it to.
We check in at the desk. My name gets written down in someone else’s handwriting, and watching it happen feels strange, like I’m being transferred from one version of myself toanother. The woman behind the counter is kind without being pitying, which I didn’t realize I needed until it happened.
She tells us where to sit.
The chairs are hard plastic, bolted to the floor. The walls are beige in that institutional way that suggests neutrality but somehow feels judgmental anyway. A TV murmurs in the corner, tuned to a morning news show where everyone is smiling too much.
I keep thinking about Dallas’s kitchen this morning. The smell of coffee. The way the light came in through the window. The way he kissed my temple and told me he’d be right there when I was done.
I hold onto that like a rope.
A female officer calls my name.
Hearing it out loud makes my chest tighten. For a split second, my instinct is to stand up straighter. To perform. To make sure I sound reasonable. Polite. Not difficult.
Mom squeezes my hand.
I follow the officer down a hallway that feels too long for how quiet it is. Our footsteps echo softly, rubber soles against tile, the sound too loud for a place that’s supposed to feel calm. She opens a door at the end and gestures us inside.
The interview room is small. Neutral. A table bolted to the floor, three chairs, a box of tissues already placed within reach.
That alone almost breaks me.
The officer waits until Mom and I are seated before she sits too, folding her hands on the table instead of reaching for the folder right away.
“Before we start,” she says, “I want you to know this is your pace. If you need a break, we stop. If something doesn’t make sense, you ask. Okay?”
I nod. It’s easier than trusting my voice.
She opens the folder slowly and turns it so it faces me. Not like she’s presenting evidence, but like she’s offering information I’m allowed to understand.
“Restraining orders come in a few parts,” she says, sliding the first page forward. “This section is about contact. That means phone calls, texts, emails, social media, and messages sent through other people. Any attempt to reach you.”
She taps the page lightly with her pen, then looks up. “If this is granted, they’re not allowed to contact you directly or indirectly.”
I swallow and nod again.
She pulls out the second page. “This one is proximity. Physical distance. It sets clear boundaries. How close they’re allowed to be to your home, your workplace, anywhere you regularly go.”
“How close?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
“Typically a few hundred yards,” she answers immediately. “Enough that if they’re nearby, law enforcement can step in without needing interpretation.”
That matters more than I expected.
She adds a third page to the stack. “This outlines enforcement. What happens if either order is violated. Who you call. What we document. What consequences follow.”
She doesn’t rush through it. She pauses after each explanation, watching my face, letting it settle instead of pile up.
