Saying his name out loud in this room makes my skin crawl. My hands start shaking again, worse this time, my fingers curling into my sleeves like I can hide in them.
“Take a breath,” the officer says. “You’re safe here.”
I nod, even though my body doesn’t quite believe it yet.
I talk about the yelling. The way he followed me. The photos. The way he broke my phone like it was nothing, like destroying my lifeline was an inconvenience to him. I talk about the car, about freezing, about how his anger wasn’t explosive at first but controlled, calculated.
“When did you feel the most afraid?” she asks quietly.
“In the car,” I say without hesitation. “Because I realized he wasn’t listening anymore. He had already decided what he wanted me to do.”
My voice breaks there, and I hate that it does.
I hate how part of me still wants to apologize for taking up space with my fear.
Mom reaches over and presses her palm between my shoulder blades.
I keep going.
By the time I finish, my chest feels scraped raw, like I peeled myself open and exposed it to air. I’m exhausted in a way sleep won’t touch.
The officer slides the paperwork toward me.
“Take your time,” she says. “Read everything. Ask questions. This is about protecting you.”
The forms are dense. Legal language stacked on legal language. Final.
I read every line anyway.
Because this time, I want to know exactly what I’m agreeing to.
My name appears again and again.
So do theirs.
Restrained from contacting.
Restrained from approaching.
Restrained from interfering.
The words look powerful on paper.
My hand trembles as I pick up the pen.
Doubt creeps in.
He’s your father.
This will make things worse.
You’re overreacting.
The voices are familiar.
They don’t get to win anymore.
I sign.
