The flood woman's house smelled like ginger and old wood, but it felt warmer than any place I had ever known. I remember how her arms wrapped around me like I belonged there, like I hadn't just run from hell barefoot and broken. Her hands were wrinkled, rough with work, yet soft against my back. She never asked too many questions. She didn't need to.
My mother arrived at dawn. Her lip was split, one eye already bruising, and her hands shook as she reached for me. We didn't cry. Neither of us. The flood woman—Miss Eno, I later learned—simply opened the door wider and let us in.
We stayed there for days.
The days passed slowly, but not peacefully. At night, I could hear my mother's muffled sobs behind the curtain that separated our mattress from Miss Eno's. Some nights, she didn't sleep at all. Just sat hunched over the table, sipping cold tea, staring into the dark. I once caught her rubbing her wedding ring, twisting it round and round, like she didn't know whether to throw it away or swallow it whole.
She tried to smile for me. I tried to pretend I was okay. Lala—the teddy—was missing an ear, but I held her tighter than ever. It was the only piece of the old life I dared keep.
Miss Eno became our guardian angel. She'd hum while cooking, braid my hair with nimble fingers, and call me "Little Sunshine" even though I didn't remember how to smile. Her house had one small mirror, and each time I looked into it, I saw a version of myself I didn't recognize—eyes too big, skin too pale, a mouth always slightly open like it had forgotten how to speak.
Then came the questions.
Police. Social workers. A kind nurse who knelt to my eye level and asked things too gently. I didn't say much. Not because I didn't remember, but because I remembered everything.
My mother never spoke of my father again. But sometimes, I'd hear her talking to herself in the dark.
"He would've killed us. He meant to."
And the way she said it—it wasn't fear anymore. It was fury. Sharp and burning.
"I should've left long ago," she whispered, not to me, not to anyone. Maybe just to the wind.
That night, she held me tighter than she ever had. Her arms around me, shaking, breath uneven.
"I'll never let anyone hurt you again," she promised. Her voice cracked. "Even if it means dying first."
We left Miss Eno's after that. Not because we wanted to. Because we had to. A woman taking in two fugitives from pain can only hide them for so long before questions turn to suspicions.
The last thing Miss Eno gave me was a wooden charm, shaped like a bird in flight.
"To remind you," she said, "that you're not trapped. Even broken wings can find the sky again."
I never forgot that.
But the world outside didn't welcome us. We went to my grandmother's house—my mother's last hope. But hope is a cruel thing.
Grandma's eyes were flint the moment she opened the door. She looked past the bruises, past the pain, and saw only shame. She didn't speak of what happened to us. She spoke of disgrace, of family name, of how no woman should abandon her husband no matter the circumstances.
"You come running back here like stray dogs," she muttered that first night. "Don't expect sympathy from me."
Her home wasn't safe. It was a different kind of prison—one built on silence, cold stares, and rules we dared not question. My mother tried to make it work. But Grandma made sure we felt unwelcome every second. The judgment in her eyes was a blade she never put down.
A week. That's all we could bear.
We packed our few belongings into a small bag. My mother didn't cry when she said goodbye. She simply stood, lips tight, eyes hollow. We walked to the bus station in silence.