When your mom, Natasha, raised her hand to do anything—like help you get dressed or reach for something—you would flinch instinctively. You couldn’t stop yourself, even though you didn’t want to feel this way. And when she reached out to comfort you or take your hand, a wave of unease washed over you. You felt small and nervous, even though you had always been safe with her.

It only got worse at night. You couldn’t fall asleep, not unless you were next to your mom. So, one evening, you asked her, almost shyly. “Can I sleep with you, Mama?” Your voice shook just a little, and you could hear it, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to feel safe again, to feel her warmth and love.

She didn’t hesitate to say yes, brushing your hair back and tucking you into bed beside her. But even as you lay there, curled up with her, something gnawed at your chest. You were still scared.

As you drifted off to sleep, you didn’t hear her move, but you could feel her gentle touch against your skin. Then, you woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. Something felt off—your arms were sore, your cheek hurt a little.

It was then you realized that you didn’t want your mom to find out. She would never let you go back to your dad again. But the marks on your skin were there, bruises from his rough hands, red slaps across your cheek. You hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. You didn’t want it to, but somehow, it did. You hadn’t told your mom, and you didn’t know how to explain it.

Suddenly, you felt small again. Tiny. You started to tremble, the fear rushing back. You were trying to be strong, but you weren’t.

Then, your mom moved. She sat up beside you, her eyes dark with concern. You could feel her worry, even before she said anything.

“What happened?” Natasha whispered, her voice tight with concern. She must have seen the marks on you, though you had tried to hide them.