Simon tripped over a hole in the broken, uneven sidewalk, and I instinctively reached out to catch him, pulling back as soon as I saw he was fine. “Da-a-ad,” he’d complain. “I’m not a baby!”

All of seven years old and so certain he could take care of himself. He continued talking, completely unphased by the misstep, and I gasped as the tip of his toe caught a piece of broken concrete, nearly throwing him and his bag of groceries to the ground. He caught himself at the last moment, though.

“Hey, bud, why don’t I carry the eggs?” I suggested, earning myself a glare.

“I got it!” he insisted.

I bit my tongue. It was so hard to keep myself from protecting him from every potential danger. But if I were to do that, we’d never leave the house, holing ourselves up in an urban fortress, and that was no way for a child to live. Or an adult, I supposed, but as an adult who was able to make my own choices, I wouldn’t say no to a temporary retreat to a fortress. Safety... it was an illusion, I knew that, but it was one I’d welcome.

“—and then Derek hit Arthur—“

“What? Why?” I exclaimed. I’d lost track of Simon’s story, wound up in my own thoughts.

“Da-a-ad.” Simon slid me a side eye stronger than any seven year old had a right to possess. “You weren’t listening to me!”

“Sorry, bud.” I ruffled his hair and he dodged away. “I’m listening now. Why did Derek hit Arthur?”

“Because Arthur said that Peter’s dad should go back to where he came from, that immigrants were—“

I cut him off before he could repeat whatever dirty thoughts Arthur’s parents had been stuffing into his head. “You know I don’t like those kinds of comments, Simon.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “I know, Dad. I’m just telling you what Arthur said. And that’s why Derek hit him, because Peter’s his best friend and—“

“That isn’t a good reason to hit anyone,” I said, maybe too harshly. I tempered my tone. “You know that, right, Simon? We should always use our words. If talking to someone doesn’t help, then you should go find a grown up to help.”

“What about when I am a grown up?” Simon said, his eyes too old and too wise. “What if when I’m a grown up, words don’t work, and there’s no one to go to?”

I stopped, grabbing his hand and kneeling in front of him, my heart breaking in two. “There’s always someone to go to,” I promised, but my words rang hollow in my own ears, and probably Simon’s as well. I hadn’t gone to anyone when Mark had been hitting me. I hadn’t resorted to violence, either, but sometimes I wondered if I should.

No, I knew that wouldn’t have solved anything. On a base, physical level, it wouldn’t have done anything. Mark had been twice my size. What would I have been able to do? And the damage to my soul would have been far greater than the pain he’d caused me, and I would never make light of the wounds he’d caused.

Not just physical wounds, either.

I could see the truth now. I could have gone to the cops. There were battered spouse resources. I had just been trapped in a prison of my own making.

No. Not my own making. Of Mark’s making. I’d been doing my best to self-counsel since escaping him, splitting my time at the library between checking the news to make sure he hadn’t reported me for kidnapping Simon and searching for advice from others who had been in my situation.

I felt a lot of guilt for staying with him for so long. The internet assured me both that this was a normal emotion and also that I should stab such thoughts with the sharpest mental machete possible. One thing I felt no guilt for was running with Simon. For so long, I’d consoled myself with the thought, “He provides for Simon, at least. He doesn’t mistreat him.”

It only took one hit, one blooming bruise on my son’s face to dislodge me from my false expectations. I’d run, then. Run hard and fast. Thankfully, Mark had allowed me a car of my own, even though it was only that he didn’t want to be bothered driving Simon to school events and doctor’s appointments. I’d sold it as soon as I was far enough from Mark to breathe, to a shady guy who didn’t care that I didn’t have the title on me, and I was happy to accept much less money than it was worth, glad to be rid of Mark’s final tie to me. To us.

“Da-a-d. You’re doing it again.”

I smiled, trying to wipe the memories from my mind. They’d been digging at my brain fiercely today, as the anniversary of leaving Mark approached. One year ago today, Mark had hit my son. One year ago tomorrow, I’d run and run and run, and for the last year, I’d lived in fear of Mark tracking us down, at what he would do if he found us. But one year was approaching, and I’d finally started to feel like I could stop watching my back and start looking forward.

“What do you think about chicken nuggets for dinner tonight, bud?” I’d snuck the little packet onto the conveyor belt at the store when he hadn’t been looking. I doubted he knew the date, but I felt we deserved a little celebratory dinner.

“With barbecue sauce?” Simon asked, bouncing on his toes, narrowly missing the sidewalk and bouncing into the street.

I checked my mental inventory of our pantry and fridge. We couldn’t afford store bought barbecue, but we did have some ketchup and brown sugar... I was pretty sure I had some Worcestershire sauce. In a pinch, I could use vinegar…

“Yeah, bud. WIth barbecue sauce.”

Simon launched into another story from his day at school, and I focused on keeping at least half of my mind on the conversation, while thoughts in the back of my mind insisted on reminding me that there were only two months of school left. I was going to have to find some form of childcare for Simon during the day so that I could continue to work. There were free options, yes, government backed options. Government meant submitting our information again. Risking that Mark might somehow be contacted or find out where we were.

I’d been terrified, putting Simon into school this past fall. I had to give them his social security number, and mine. I’d lied and said he’d been homeschooled previously so they wouldn’t go requesting records for his old school. That had taken quite a few days at the library, figuring out what kind of documentation I needed to present for his “records,” and then putting them together.

But Mark hadn’t come. Maybe someday, I’d be able to truly believe he wouldn’t come for us.

We were almost to our crappy, second story apartment when Simon stopped right in front of me. I wrapped my free arm around him to keep him from crashing to the ground.

“Simon, what—“

Simon spun in my arms, pushing me backward. “Run, Dad. Run!”

“Simon, what are you—“ My feet stumbled backward as I looked around to find what had startled my little boy so much.

Mark leaned against his blue Ford Focus, parked directly outside of our place. He hadn’t changed. His hair was still cropped short, his sideburns too long. He wore his motorcycle jacket that he thought made him look bad ass. It just made him look like he was trying too hard. At Simon’s cry, he looked up, and our eyes locked. His lips twisted in a feral grin of victory and he uncrossed his arms and took one step toward us.

I turned, grabbing Simon by the arm with my free hand, groceries gripped tightly in the other, and ran. I ran back the way we had come, taking a hard left at the end of our road. We would never make it to the local police station. It was only a half mile away—a fifteen minute walk on a slow day—but Mark gunned the tiny engine of his car behind us. The high growl should have been laughable. It terrified me to my core.

I needed to get off the road. The Focus squealed around the corner behind us, and Simon tried to look back, causing him to stumble.

“Don’t look,” I commanded. “Just run.”

It didn’t matter. Mark sped past us in a matter of seconds, pulling his car to a sliding stop in front of us. I dropped the groceries as Simon and I scrambled to turn around, falling, the asphalt scraping and tearing my palms. I pushed Simon ahead of me.

Mark’s door slammed shut, and his heavy boots slapped against the pavement as he ran around the vehicle. Then his hands were on me, numbness and fear shooting through my body from his grip. His fist smashed against my face once.

“Keep running, Simon!” I yelled as Mark twisted me around to face him.

“Did you think you could run from me?” Mark said, shaking me, my teeth cracking against each other in a sick rattle. “Do you realize how much you have embarrassed me? The excuses I’ve had to make? Thankfully, everyone has bought the story you’ve been terminally ill. That Simon has been staying with my parents. You’ve tried to destroy our family, Alan. Is that what you wanted? I should have known better than to choose a useless liar like you. It’s always been lies, hasn’t it? Lies in the beginning. At least you’d left me plausible deniability. Didn’t tell me how old you really were until you were pregnant. At least you were legal by then. Was this your plan all along, huh? Get pregnant, steal my child?”

My mouth opened, but my tongue and throat refused to cooperate, to protest. All too easily, my old coping mechanisms came back to me. Deflect. Apologize. Agree.

I couldn’t do that, but I couldn’t fight back either. I was frozen in the grip of my abuser, the hope that had teased me just a few minutes ago driving the terror even deeper with the contrast.

“Leave my dad alone!” Simon yelled, launching at Mark like a flying fury from the side. His little fists flew uselessly against Mark’s broad side.

Mark released one hand and casually back slapped Simon, sending him flying several feet away. That undid his dark spell over me, and I began to thrash like a wildcat.

“I’ll deal with my son in a moment. It will take a while to cure him of whatever bullshit you’ve been feeding him, but I’ll beat it out of him sooner or later. Beat some sense into both of you.”

I did my best, even with the command I’d just given Simon, that hitting someone was never okay. All my principles flew away under Mark’s return. I hooked my fingers and tried to gouge his eyes, but he held me away easily, his reach longer than mine. I tried to kick him. He punched a nerve bundle in my thigh, and I collapsed. After that, it was just pain. I tried to block him, to lash out, blood burning my eyes, clouding my sight.

I wasn’t the weak omega who had left him one year ago, but apparently I wasn’t as strong as I hoped I was. I kept fighting, though. I had to. Simon was still here, and the longer I kept Mark’s attention on me, the better chance Simon had to escape.

I couldn’t yell, but the words repeated themselves in my mind, a desperate mantra. Run, Simon. Run Simon. Runsimon. Runsimonrunsimonrunsion. Run.

And then the pain was only an echo. No more blows thudded against my flesh, bruising and breaking.

I looked up to see the tables had turned on Mark. A tall, dark man drove Mark up against his Focus, forcing Mark to protect his face this time.

“Dad? Dad are you okay?” Simon asked, his little hands pulling at my arm.

I struggled to my feet, my only thought to get away. I couldn’t run, but I could hobble, so I took Simon’s hand and hobbled as fast as I could to our apartment, every veneer of security stripped away. We had to run again. And this time, we wouldn’t stop.