Some nights, after the girls finally fell asleep, I sat on the bathroom floor and cried.

I cried from exhaustion.

From fear.

From anger I could not afford to feel during the day.

But every time I looked at my daughters, something steady rose up inside me.

Their matching dimples.

Their sleepy smiles.

Their tiny hands wrapped around my fingers.

So I stood back up.

I had no other choice.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, things began to change.

I learned how to stretch a dollar.

How to say no.

How to keep going when my body begged me to stop.

I took on cleaning clients of my own. One turned into two. Two became five.

I printed business cards at the public library and tucked them into my purse like they were treasures.

Years passed.

Eventually, I bought us a small house.

The porch creaked, but the walls were solid.

I replaced my rusted car.

My daughters grew tall and confident, laughing loudly and dreaming freely.

Our home became warm.

Movie nights on the couch.

Shared meals at a small kitchen table.

Inside jokes only the three of us understood.

Peace arrived quietly.

Fifteen years went by.

Then, one Tuesday morning, everything cracked open again.

I was sitting in my office, reviewing schedules and sipping coffee.

My office.

Something I once believed would never belong to me.

A loud knock echoed through the space, startling me so badly I spilled my drink.

Before I could respond, the door opened.

A man stepped inside.