It was raining the day Mama came home broken. Not just tired or scared—but broken in the way that told me something had snapped inside her that wouldn't come back. The skies opened like they knew what had happened. Even the clouds were crying.
I was on the couch, hugging Lala tight, one ear soft and frayed against my cheek. The front door swung open hard enough to slam the wall. Mama stumbled in. Her scarf was torn. Her lip was bleeding. One of her eyes was already swelling shut.
And her uniform—she was still wearing her nurse scrubs—was ripped near the shoulder.
I gasped. My mouth opened but no sound came out. It never did anymore.
She didn't even see me at first. She dropped her purse, locked the door behind her, then leaned her back against it and slid to the floor. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, like she was being chased by ghosts she couldn't outrun.
I crawled to her on my knees.
"Mama?" I whispered.
She flinched when I touched her. Then she blinked, and her arms wrapped around me like a cage. I felt her shaking. Every part of her shook.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into my hair. "I'm sorry, baby. I should've run earlier."
---
It had happened right outside the hospital gate. She'd just ended her shift, her badge still clipped to her front pocket. She was tired, but the streetlights were on and people were walking by. She thought it was safe.
Until he stepped out from behind a car.
My father.
She didn't tell me everything. But I pieced it together from the things she didn't say.
He yelled first. Called her names. Slapped the papers from her hand. Said she was "corrupting his daughter," like he hadn't tried to ruin us both.
Then he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her against the fence.
People watched.
One man pulled out his phone.
No one helped.
And just before someone finally ran to get security, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, **"You're dead. Next time I see you, you're gone."**
Mama didn't cry when she told me. She never did. But her mouth was tight like she was holding blood between her teeth.
---
That night, she pulled down the travel bag from the top shelf. The one we'd hoped never to touch again. I sat on the bed watching her fold our lives into neat little piles. Lala was in my lap, the frayed ear brushing against my wrist with each shaky breath I took.
"We can't stay, Laura," she said, her voice flat. "He'll find us. I don't know how, but he will."
I nodded. I didn't ask where we were going. That didn't matter anymore.
What mattered was *away*.
---
The apartment was quieter than ever. No more Lisa knocking at the window. No more school mornings. No more bedtime tea.
Mama quit her job that night. Didn't even go back to collect her things.
The next morning, we left before sunrise. Two bags, a child, and a woman stitched together by fear.
I looked back once. The small street. The cracked sidewalk. The place I'd tried to pretend was home.
It didn't wave goodbye.
And neither did I.
Because goodbyes are for places that give you something to miss.
And all that place gave us was scars.
---
We didn't know where we were going.
But we knew what we were running from.
And sometimes, that's enough.