Chapter 6
Three weeks later, the legal battle began.
I sat at a table in the solicitor's office, my son with a trusted carer down the hall, while we went through the files.
My husband had filed for full custody. Citing abandonment, mental instability, and alienation of affection.
He had attached sworn statements. From himself. From his mother. From neighbors who barely knew me. All painting me as fragile, erratic, unfit.
"Typical," Elena said, sitting beside me. "His strategy is simple: destroy your credibility before you can present any facts. If you are the problem, then nothing he does matters."
I touched the folder marked EVIDENCE.
"Let him try," I said.
We submitted everything. Photos of my bruises, dated and stamped. The audio files, professionally authenticated. Transcripts laid out in black and white, showing every word they had spoken about breaking me, about controlling me, about treating my exhaustion as a weapon.
The response came within days.
My husband denied the recordings were real. He claimed they had been edited, manufactured, taken out of context. He said I had spliced together words from different conversations to frame him.
"He will say anything," I said.
"And we will prove otherwise," Elena replied. "The timestamps match. The background noise is consistent. The voice analysis will confirm it is them. He is gambling that you will be too afraid to fight all the way."
A court date was set. Six weeks away. Six weeks to prepare. Six weeks to wonder if justice actually existed for women like me.
In that time, we moved again. To a smaller town, further away. New rental lease. New doctor. New routine.
I walked to the park each morning. I pushed the stroller along quiet paths. I learned to breathe without flinching at loud footsteps or raised voices.
But fear lived in my bones.
Every car that slowed down too fast made me turn and check the license plate. Every stranger who glanced too long made me hold my son tighter. Every phone call made my pulse spike until I saw the name on the screen.
Elena told me it was normal. That I had been trained to be afraid. That it would fade with time and safety.
I wanted to believe her.
Then one afternoon, as I walked home from the shops, I saw him.
Not my husband. But his cousin. A man I had met once at Christmas. Tall, broad-shouldered, scar across his eyebrow.
He stood across the street. Staring straight at me.
My blood turned to ice.
I turned sharply, pushed the stroller down a side street, and walked fast. I didn't run. Running draws attention. But my heart hammered hard enough to hurt.
I glanced back. He was following.
I ducked into a busy supermarket. Weaved through aisles. Exited through a different door. Walked three blocks out of my way before heading home by a route no one would expect.
I locked the door behind me, trembling so hard I could barely stand.
May you like
They knew.
They had found us.
