At nine months pregnant, I expected my husband to drive me to the hospital. Instead, he tossed fifteen dollars at me and said it was enough for a taxi.

Derek learned where I was twenty-four hours later, but not from me.

My obstetrician’s office called to ask why I hadn’t delivered at Riverside Methodist. When Derek answered the home phone, he learned only that I’d given birth somewhere else.

That was enough to send him into a rage.

My phone filled with messages.

Where are you?

You cannot keep my child from me.

You are insane.

Then, twenty minutes later:

Come home. We can talk.

Rachel read them while I fed Emily in the hospital bed.

“He’s cycling,” she said.

“I know.”

That frightened me more than the insults.

Derek had always been skilled at changing masks.

First anger.

Then charm.

Then blame.

Then an apology vague enough to sound generous without admitting anything.

That afternoon, a social worker named Denise came into my room.

I hadn’t requested her, but one of the nurses had noticed how tense I became whenever my phone lit up.

Denise sat beside the window.

“Do you feel safe returning home?”

“No.”

It was the first time I’d answered that question honestly.

I told her Derek had never hit me.

For years, I’d almost used that fact to excuse everything else.

Then I described the passwords he kept from me, the credit card he canceled after I bought a winter coat without permission, the time he took my car keys because I stayed too long at lunch with coworkers, and the way he threatened to seek full custody whenever I disagreed with him.