The control started small. He didn’t like some of my friends. He wanted me to stay home more. When I got pregnant with Zaden, things got worse. I stopped working. He said he’d take care of everything, but everything came with a cost: my independence, my voice, my peace. By the time Zaden was a toddler, I barely recognized myself. I wasn’t allowed a debit card or to drive without checking in.

The final straw came one night when Zaden, just five, spilled juice on the carpet. Damian stood over him, yelling so loud the walls shook. I stepped in between them, shaking, and said, “You don’t yell at him like that.” Damian turned to me with that look in his eyes I’d seen too many times. That night, I packed a backpack, took my son, and left.

We stayed at my mother’s before I found a tiny one-bedroom apartment. I picked up a part-time job at the library and cleaned offices at night. It was hard, but we were free. And more than anything, Zaden was safe.