For Her Freedom

February 2, 2017

Dear Diary,

Do I say 'Dear Diary'? I haven't written anything since I was a teenager, but my lawyer said writing might help.

Prison days are long. I didn't think they would feel this endless when I first got here. My cellmate marks the days she has been here on the wall beside her bunk. I don't need to. I know how long I've been here. 

Five months. 

My lawyer said that writing might help me accept what I've done. But she doesn't understand. I don't think anyone will. 

February 8, 2017

The women in here talk a lot. Most of them aren't bad, not really. They've done things, sure, but it's strange how ordinary they seem. Sometimes, I catch myself forgetting where I am. That I'm surrounded by people who've committed acts as heavy as mine.

When Kat asked me what I did, I shrugged and said it was nothing special. A part of me wanted to tell her the whole story, to let it spill out like I've rehearsed it in my mind a thousand times. But instead, I lied, like I've lied to myself for so long. I wonder what she'd say if she knew the truth. If any of them knew.

There's a strange camaraderie in this place, but it's built on the unspoken rule that we don't pry. Everyone's hiding something, but no one's ready to face it yet.

February 10, 2017

I saw him on the news yesterday. His face was plastered on the screen. They used the wedding picture. They put my mugshot on the screen. Most of the women turned around and looked at me. I'm not sure what they felt. Most of them were in here for the same crime, so they couldn't judge. But then again, that was my husband on the screen. A part of me wanted to scream that they didn't know the whole story, but another part of me just felt hollow. It was as if I had forgotten about the outside world. Forgotten about her. 

February 14, 2017

Happy Valentine's Day Lily. 

You will forever be my 'Valentime's' lol. 

February 20, 2017

I've been dreaming of my mother lately. Which is strange, really. I hadn't seen her for five years before she died. 

In my dreams, she's wearing a flowing white nightgown, sitting on a swing on the porch of a house I don't recognise. And she's smiling, looking at the moon as if it holds all the answers. I don't remember her smiling. Not even when I told her about Lily.

Maybe my father made her that way, so stern and unforgiving. Or maybe it was me. Maybe I sucked up all her strength when I was inside her. Maybe I was the one who absorbed all her joy until there was nothing left. 

I remember sitting on the floor in front of the TV with a colouring book and a collection of pencils in front of me. She was on the couch, cigarette in hand, watching something. She shared her dream of becoming an artist, of traveling to far-off places and capturing their beauty on canvas. But then she met my father, and everything changed. He didn't want her to work; he believed a woman's place was at home. She was in love so, she let go of her aspirations, and gave him everything he wanted. I sat there, imagining the beautiful places she spoke of, never realizing how far they felt from our cramped little house.

In that moment, I realized I wanted to become the person she never had the chance to be. I picked up a pencil and learned to draw; I poured my heart into painting. I worked hard to get into a good school and get myself a fine arts degree. I thought it would bring her joy, that she would finally see a glimpse of the dreams she had once cherished. But I was wrong.

February 25, 2017

There's a woman here who calls herself "one with the universe." She's always so calm, like nothing in this place can touch her. She runs these therapy groups, guiding a few women through breathing exercises and positive affirmations. I thought I'd give it a try, but the whole time, I kept thinking, how can you be one with the universe when you're stuck behind these walls?

When it was my turn to speak, I shared my dream about my mother. I didn't expect much, maybe some vague advice about letting go. But what she said hit me harder than I thought it would. She said the dream of my mother smiling is a plea for forgiveness. That part of me wants to see her free from the weight of everything she carried, everything she let happen to us. 

Forgiveness has never come easily to me. I never forgave her for what she did—what she allowed him to do to both of us.

But now, reflecting on my own choices, knowing that I did the same thing to Lily (and to myself) I think I'm starting to understand. She loved a man, and that man loved her, until that love left bloodstains on her pillowcase.

I always bought black bedding.

February 28, 2017

I've been thinking about the little moments with Lily. The ones before everything went wrong. Like the night we laid on a blanket in the front yard after she had finished her homework. She'd ask me questions about the stars, about why they twinkled, and I told her a story I made up on the spot. I'd say the stars were winking at her, that they were watching over her. She laughed and her small body cuddled further into my chest.

That laugh. I don't remember the last time I heard that laugh.

Back then, she still trusted me. She believed I could protect her. That I was her shield. 

But I ruined that.  

March 3, 2017

He hit me for the first time on a Friday. We were at dinner with a few of his colleagues. I can still see the fancy china Dr William laid out. Not to be that woman, but my china was much prettier. As the night went on, I indulged in way too much wine and I said something I shouldn't have. It slipped out before I could catch it. 

I mentioned that I was the one who paid for Tim's last year of medical school. The laughter around the table stilled, and for a brief moment, I felt a chill run through the room. His expression shifted from amusement to something darker. I could see the anger building behind his eyes, the way his jaw tightened as he tried to maintain his composure in front of his colleagues. It was as if I had pulled back a curtain, revealing a side of our life that he preferred to keep hidden.

He stood up abruptly. I can still hear his chair scraping against the floor. My heart raced, confusion flooding my mind as I tried to understand what had just happened. I opened my mouth to apologize, to take back my words, but before I could speak, he said it was time to go. 

As soon as he closed the front door of our house, he reached over and struck the right side of my face. 

The impact was shocking, hot and cold at the same time, like a slap of reality that left me reeling. 

At that moment, all the warmth of the evening vanished, replaced by a heavy blanket of shame. He apologised immediately and I said that I was asking for it. 

How could I have been so blind to the fact that this incident was only the beginning? 

March 5, 2017

There was a day we went to the grocery store together. I remember it vividly, how the fluorescent lights flickered above us, casting harsh shadows on the aisles. He thought I was buying things that weren't necessary, and that the bill was too high because I had splurged on junk. So, he decided to come with me, convinced he needed to monitor my choices.

As we walked through the aisles, I felt his gaze scrutinizing every item I placed in the cart. I could almost hear the unspoken judgments in the air, the weight of his disapproval pressing down on me like a heavy fog. I picked up fresh fruits and vegetables, hoping to justify my selections, but with each item I added, I felt more and more like I was under a microscope.

He asked me if we really needed three packs of Cerabelly Smart Bars. When I explained that they were Lily's favourites, he looked at me as if he had forgotten that we live with a child. 

One of the things I loved most about him was how welcoming he was of Lily, although she wasn't his.

He didn't like the way I'd spoken to the cashier. I could feel his anger building all the way home. I kept telling myself it would pass—that maybe if I stayed quiet, it would simmer down. But when we got home, and Lily asked if she could have her snack... I could see it in his eyes.

He pushed her. Just a little shove. But it was enough to send her stumbling backwards into the counter. She didn't cry. I think that's what scared me the most, she didn't cry. She just looked at him, wide-eyed, waiting to see what would happen next.

I told him to leave her alone. I don't know where the courage came from, but it didn't last long. He turned on me so fast, like I wasn't even human to him anymore. And all I could think, the whole time he was yelling, was that I should've left long before it got to this point. Before Lily ever saw him for what he really was.

But I stayed. I thought I could manage him. But in trying to manage him, I was losing her.

March 6, 2017

I still feel Lily's small arms around me when I hugged her that night he shoved her. She was only eight, but I remember how tightly she held onto me, like I was the only thing standing between her and the world. I'd tell her she was safe, that everything would be okay. I never should have lied to her like that. I knew it wasn't true, but I needed her to believe it. I needed her to think I was strong, that I could protect her. But the truth is, I couldn't even protect myself.

March 7, 2017

I can't stop thinking about the way his voice would fill the house when he got angry. It wasn't just the words, but the way he said them. Like they were meant to sink into my skin, to make me smaller. I would shut down, go numb, and just wait for it to be over. That was my way of coping, I guess. 

Lily wasn't like me. She didn't shut down or go numb the way I did. She felt everything. Every raised voice, every argument that echoed through the house—she absorbed it all. I could see it in the way she flinched when he got angry, the way she watched me, waiting for me to say something, to do something. But I never did.

How many times had I told myself I was protecting her? But now, looking back, I realize I wasn't protecting anyone. I was teaching her the same lessons I'd learned from my mother: that silence keeps the peace. 

I should have left. The moment I saw how his temper flared, how it made her shrink into herself, I should have packed our things and never looked back. But I didn't. And every day I stayed, I betrayed her a little more.

March 9, 2017

Lily used to hum 'twinkle twinkle little star' to herself every night after I read her a story. I'd sit by her bed, watch her eyes flutter closed, and listen to that little hum. It was her way of soothing herself, I think. Like a melody to keep the darkness away. I didn't realize how much that small sound meant to me until the night it stopped.

After I'd finished reading, she saw the bruise on my wrist. Her eyes, wide and innocent, locked on it for a long moment before she asked, "Why do you let him do that to you?" I froze. I didn't have an answer then, and I still don't. What do you say when your nine-year-old daughter sees the truth you've tried so hard to hide?

She didn't wait for an answer. Instead, she took my hand and kissed the bruise, like that small gesture could undo everything that had happened.

Can you imagine that? The feeling of your own child kissing the mark your husband left on your skin? I was supposed to be the one kissing her bruises from when she fell off her bike, not the other way around.

That was the night she told me not to read her bedtime stories anymore. 

March 10, 2017

The night that Tim stood over me while I was bleeding out on the kitchen floor was the night I realized that I had done something I promised never to do. 

I married a man just like my father. 

If anyone ever reads this then they probably realised it instantly. But it took me a good three years to realize it. Three years of broken promises, lies, and bruises to realize that I had walked right into the same cycle I grew up in. I had done to Lily what my mother had done to me. 

That realization hit me harder than any of his blows. It wasn't just that I had failed to protect myself, I had failed her. I had brought her into a home where fear lived in every corner, where love was conditional and control disguised itself as affection. I had convinced myself, time and time again, that I was different from my mother, and that I would never make the same choices she did. 

I promised myself I'd be stronger.

But there I was, on the cold tile, staring up at the man I thought I loved, while Lily slept down the hall, unaware of how fragile her world had become. Just like I had been when I was her age, when I would hear my parents fighting and bury myself under the blankets, pretending it wasn't happening.

I had trapped Lily in that same nightmare. And I was no better than my mother for staying as long as I had. I wasn't even scared in that moment. I just felt... broken. Not because of the blood, or the pain, but because I had failed my daughter in the worst way a mother could. I had let her down by letting him in. I had made her witness things no child should ever see. I had passed on the very curse I swore to break.

I should have left the first time he raised his hand. But I stayed, just like my mother did, clinging to the hope that things would change, that he would change. I told myself the same lies she used to tell herself. And now, I wonder if she lay on the floor one night, just like I did, with the same horrible realization crawling over her skin.

This is the thing that no one tells you about abuse, the shame doesn't just come from the bruises or the isolation. It comes from the moment you realize you've become exactly what you never wanted to be.

March 11, 2017

I can still see the way Lily's hand looked that night. Small and shaky, but steady enough to hold the knife. I wonder if she knew what she was doing, if she even realized what had just happened. She didn't cry. She never said she was sorry. Her voice was steady, too steady for a twelve-year-old. She said, "It's over now, Mom."

I can't stop hearing those words in my head. Over and over.

She said them like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she'd already made peace with it. I didn't understand how she could be so calm. I was shaking, my hands covered in blood, and all she did was stand there, watching me, waiting for me to fix it.

March 16, 2017

I've thought about telling the truth. About standing up in court and saying it was her. That it wasn't me who killed him. Does that make me a terrible person? 

Would the judge believe me? If he did, would he understand that she was scared? That she was protecting me? Would they go easy on her? Maybe she'd only get probation, maybe therapy. Maybe they'd see she's just a child.

But then what? She'd be trapped by it. People would look at her differently. They'd see her as the girl who killed her stepfather. It would follow her for the rest of her life. And I can't do that to her.

The choices I made led me here. This is where I belong now. My life is behind these walls. But hers is out there, in the world. She deserves to be free. To go to school, to see her friends, to laugh again without fear.

I couldn't protect her from him, not in the way I should have. But I can protect her from the burden of having everyone know what she did.

I know she can be better than me. She can become the woman my mother and I both dreamed of being, the one we never had the strength to become.

And if carrying this weight means she gets to live her life and be that woman, then that's a weight I'll gladly bear.

For her freedom.