Chapter 8 - Breaking the Silence
Rebuilding a life after five years of captivity does not happen overnight.
Owen—who insisted on being called Owen rather than Ben within three days of coming home—gradually began to shed the hyper-vigilance that had defined his early childhood.
We spent our afternoons in the backyard of our new home in West Portland. There were no locks on the outside of his bedroom door. There were no empty bottles in the pantry. There was only sunlight, fresh grass, and the sound of a red rubber ball bouncing against the pavement.
One Saturday afternoon, I sat on the back porch drinking coffee while Owen kicked his new soccer ball back and forth against a collapsible net.
He stopped, picked up the ball, and walked over to where I was sitting.
“Mom?” he asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Yes, buddy?”
“Are we ever going back to the old town?”
“Never,” I said firmly, setting my mug down and pulling him onto my lap. “That place is history. We live here now. This is our home.”
“Good,” he murmured, resting his head against my chest. “Because I don't want to see Aunt Diane ever again.”
“You won't,” I promised. “She is never coming near you again. The judge made sure of that.”
He was silent for a long moment, listening to the steady beat of my heart.
“Mom?”
“I’m listening.”
“Can we make pancakes tonight? The kind with real chocolate chips? Not the hard bread pieces we used to eat.”
I smiled, feeling a hot tear of pure joy slip down my cheek.
May you like
“We can make as many pancakes as you want,” I said, kissing the top of his head. “We can make pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if you want.”
He giggled—a bright, musical sound that I had dreamed of hearing every single night for five long years.
