N6

I used to live in a house that looked normal from the outside—white shutters, trimmed hedges, a swing set in the backyard.
Inside, though, it was a different world.
My mother floated through life like a character in a fairy tale, convinced everything was sunshine and roses.
She’d hum while folding laundry, smile through bruises, and tell us we were lucky to have such a “strong” father.
But strength, in our house, meant fists, silence, and fear.

My dad ruled with rage.
Dinner was a minefield—one wrong word and the table would flip.
We learned to speak softly, move quickly, and never cry.
Crying made it worse.
He said tears were weakness, and weakness deserved punishment.

I used to dream of escape, of a world where laughter didn’t come with consequences.
At night, I’d stare at the ceiling and imagine a door opening to somewhere safe.
My sister kept a bag packed under her bed, just in case.
We whispered plans in the dark, like spies in enemy territory.
Mom never saw the truth—she painted over it with pastel lies.

One morning, after a particularly violent night, I found the courage to act.
I took my sister’s hand and we ran.
Not metaphorically—literally, through the back door, across the yard, into the woods.
We didn’t stop until our lungs burned and our legs gave out.
A neighbor found us hours later, curled up behind a shed.

The police came.
There were questions, paperwork, and finally, safety.
Mom cried when they took us away, still convinced we were mistaken.
But we weren’t.
We were survivors.

Now, years later, I live in a place where doors don’t slam and voices don’t shout.
Where love doesn’t hurt.
And every time I see my sister smile without flinching, I know we made it out.