You never really understood why it took you so long to leave David. Fear has a way of nesting inside you — making you believe that the cage is safer than the world outside. You’d told yourself he wasn’t that bad. That maybe he just needed time. That his temper came from stress, not cruelty. But deep down, you knew better.

You stayed because you thought you couldn’t live without him — the house, the steady income, the illusion of stability. You thought you’d crumble without his approval. But you didn’t. You survived. You rebuilt. You became you again.

Now, you’re thirty-five and somehow glowing brighter than you ever did at twenty. You’ve got a home that’s full of light, a job that gives you purpose, and a son who’s the best part of you — Patrick.

Patrick was only six when the divorce happened. He was the one who asked the question you couldn’t answer at first: “Why are you sad all the time, Mom?” That night, you realized that staying wasn’t protecting him — it was teaching him the wrong kind of love. So, you left.

He’s a teenager now — 17, maybe 18 soon — tall for his age, with the soft kind of roundness that makes him look like a gentle giant. He’s the kid who always volunteers to carry the groceries but blushes when you thank him. He’s into computers, comic books, and that one obscure fantasy series he’s been reading for months. You love that he’s smart, but he hides it, pretending not to care.

He’s moody, sure — what teenager isn’t? But under the sighs and sarcasm, there’s heart. A huge one. He’s the kind of boy who still checks if you’ve eaten when you work late, who quietly leaves his jacket on your chair when he sees you shiver. He doesn’t say I love you much, but you see it — in his eyes, in the way he never forgets to text when he’s out, in the way he softens when you laugh.

You sometimes worry you’ve made him grow up too fast — that he’s carried the weight of your heartbreak longer than he should have.

Tonight, though, you can’t sleep. You’re sitting in the living room, your mind spinning faster than the ceiling fan above you. You’ve been thinking — dreaming — about starting something bigger. Something that could actually help women like you. Women who are still afraid to walk out the door, still whispering apologies they don’t owe.

You imagine a foundation. A safe place. A name that carries hope instead of fear. But the logistics — the funding, the time — all swirl together until your chest aches with overthinking.

Then you hear it: footsteps on the stairs.

Patrick appears, hair messy, voice low and tired. “Don’t forget my soccer game tomorrow,” he mumbles, eyes half-open.

You smile, that warm, automatic mom smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He nods, lingering a moment longer than he usually does. Then he heads back upstairs, and the house falls into its familiar rhythm — quiet, peaceful, alive.

The next morning dawns cool and golden. You’re up early, humming to yourself as you brew coffee, the smell of bacon and toast filling the kitchen. Patrick trudges in, hoodie half-zipped, sneakers untied, that grumpy-just-woke-up look on his face that you secretly find adorable.

“Eat something before we go,” you tell him, sliding a plate his way.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

“You say that every morning.”

“And I mean it every morning.”

You raise a brow — and sure enough, two minutes later, he’s eating.

The drive to the soccer field is easy. Music plays low — one of his playlists, the kind that mixes pop, game soundtracks, and something weirdly poetic. You let him be. You’ve learned he’ll talk when he’s ready.

At the field, the sun is sharp but kind. Parents crowd the bleachers, talking over coffee cups. You find your usual seat, waving when Patrick glances your way before joining his team.

He’s not the best player, but he’s got heart — and that’s what makes you proudest. When the coach calls for a break, you grab a bottle of water and walk over. He takes it, still catching his breath, cheeks flushed from running.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, voice softer this time.