She began to name it.
Not discipline.
Abuse.
Not care.
Control.
Not her fault.
Never her fault.
Our son was born on a stormy night.
Strong.
Loud.
Alive.
We named him Liam.
When he was placed on her chest, Eliza cried.
Not from fear.
But from freedom.
And when she grabbed my hand and whispered—
“Don’t let go.”
I answered:
“I never will.”
And this time…
I meant it.
Epilogue
A year later, I found her in the nursery.
Sunlight on her face.
Our son asleep in her arms.
She looked up at me—
And smiled.
Not afraid.
