Chapter 3 - Ghosts in the Hallway
We couldn’t go back. The apartment I shared with Haley had been a compromise—a small place close enough to my parents' house to appease their desire for "proximity," but far enough to give me a shred of independence. Now, it felt like a trap. I knew that every time I walked to the mailbox or pulled into the driveway, I would be looking over my shoulder, expecting the black sedan or the sharp, cold voice of my father.
A week later, we moved.
It was a frantic, terrifying process. I had to pack our lives into cardboard boxes while looking at the walls as if they were watching me. Every object held a memory: the picture frame my mother bought but always complained about, the books my father called "a waste of time."
As we drove away, I didn't take a single thing from them. I left their gifts, their furniture, and their toxicity in the dumpster behind the complex.
Our new place was on the other side of the city—an older, quiet neighborhood where no one knew our names. It was small, but it was ours. I spent the first few nights sleeping on the floor in Haley's room, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling.
"Mom?" Haley’s voice was small, cutting through the darkness.
"I'm here, baby."
"Are they coming?"
May you like
The question tore through my chest. "No," I said, leaning over to stroke her hair. "They can't come here. There’s a paper that says they aren't allowed. We are safe."
But I knew the paper was only as strong as the people who enforced it. As I laid my head back down, I heard a car door slam on the street below. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs, until the engine faded into the distance. I had moved our bodies, but my mind was still in that backyard, sinking under the water, fighting for breath. The ghost of my father’s hand on my throat still felt real, a permanent, phantom pressure I had to learn to live with.
