I dropped Willa off at my sister Mary’s house and drove across town. When I walked into the café, I spotted Nora immediately. She looked exhausted — and smaller somehow.
She didn’t waste time.
“I want to come back,” she said. “I want to leave him.”
She stared at the table, then finally looked up at me.
“Can you forgive me?” she asked. “After everything?”
I didn’t answer right away. I reached across the table and took her hand.
“Yes,” I said. “I can. And I’ll help you.”
“After everything?”
She broke down then, covering her face as years of fear and guilt spilled out of her.
When she finally steadied herself, she pulled out her phone.
“I have to do this,” she said.
She called and put him on speaker.
“I’m done,” she said, her voice shaking but firm. “Don’t call me. Don’t come looking for me.”
There was shouting on the other end — threats, promises. She listened and then ended the call.
“Don’t call me.”
“I’m done running,” she said.
We left together.
Mary was in the living room with Willa when we walked in. Willa looked up, froze, and then bolted across the room.
“Mommy!” she cried.
Nora dropped to her knees just in time to catch her. They held each other, both of them sobbing, while I stood there with my hand over my mouth.
That Christmas wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And it was ours.
“Mommy!”
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