That evening, the wine only loosened what I tried so hard to keep buried. Sebastian spoke of revenge, of debts that would one day be paid in full. His voice grew sharp, his anger aimed at those who had hurt me.
My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe. Before I even realized what I was doing, I stood up, walked away from him, and slipped into the closet.
The soft winter blanket I'd stored there cradled me as I curled into myself, knees to chest. My tears came hot, unstoppable. Every wound I thought I'd stitched shut broke open again.
Why does it still hurt this much?
The thought spun through me—I am alone. Everyone I loved turned against me. I gave them everything: years, health, even my blood. I worked day and night until I collapsed. And for what? For betrayal.
Sebastian went to sleep without even knowing where I had disappeared to. The silence wrapped around me, heavy, suffocating.
And then the memories came.
Flashbacks, sharp as knives.
I was a child again, small and trembling, hiding under the bed, hiding inside closets. That was where I felt safe. Where I prayed no one would find me.
The memory hit harder than the wine. Why… why can I remember this, but not most of my childhood inside that house?
It was as if my mind had built walls, sealing away the truth I wasn't ready to face. And now, piece by piece, the cracks were showing.
The harder I tried to remember, the sharper the pain became. It wasn't just in my chest—it drilled into my head, splitting it apart until I could barely think.
I pressed my palms against my temples. Stop. Please, stop. The ache was unbearable, as if my own mind was punishing me for reaching too deep.
But I knew what to do. I had practiced this for years. Slowly, I steadied my breath, letting each inhale stretch longer, each exhale sink deeper. Meditation. My only weapon against the storm inside me.
The pain dulled, not gone, but softened enough that I could move again. With effort, I unfolded my stiff limbs, crawled out of the closet, and dragged myself back onto the bed.
The blanket smelled faintly of soap and warmth. I clung to it, letting my body collapse at last. Exhaustion swallowed me whole, and deep, dreamless sleep took me—postponing the weight of my memories until morning.
Morning light spilled through the curtains, and as soon as he opened his eyes, I saw the storm in his expression.
"I worried about you," Sebastian said, his voice tight. "Where were you last night? I thought you went into the wine basement. The door was open."
I turned weakly toward him. "No… I wasn't there. I was in the closet."
His brows shot up. "In the closet? What?"
I pushed myself up on the pillow, hesitating. Then I pointed across the room. "Look. This closet—it's big enough, almost like a walk-in. When I couldn't take it anymore, I curled up inside, on the blanket I keep stored there."
He stared at me, as if trying to piece together something he couldn't understand.
"I don't know why," I admitted, my voice trembling. "But as I sat there… memories came back. I used to do this as a child. I hid. Often. Under beds, in closets, anywhere dark and small. But I don't remember why. I just know I did."
The words scraped out of me like secrets dragged from deep water.
"At my ex's house, I never had a closet. My things were in boxes, stacked in piles or crammed into vacuum bags. There was no space for me. Only the kids had a small corner in the living room. Just jackets and shoes for me, nothing more. But now…" I touched the fabric of the blanket still clinging to me. "Now that I finally have a space, this happened. Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's… a childhood thing. I don't know. But it scares me."
Sebastian's expression softened, the storm fading from his eyes. He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.
"Then have your little nest in the closet," he said gently, almost teasing. "If it makes you feel safe, keep it. It's fine."
My throat tightened. "But… isn't it strange? For me to do that?"
He shook his head. "Not strange. It just means your heart remembers things your mind doesn't. And if curling up in there helps you breathe, then do it. You're not that little girl hiding anymore. You're safe now. With me."
The warmth in his words broke something inside me. For the first time in years, I felt permission to exist as I was—fragile, trembling, yet healing.
As the memories returned shard by shard, day by day, his arms were there to catch me. At night he held me close, checking if I was fine even in his sleep; during the day his eyes never missed a change in me.
"When you feel worse, you get paler," he whispered once. "I see you."
And he truly did. I had never felt so seen in my life. His care reached into places I thought no one could understand. Only my children's faces had ever held that kind of truth for me before. Perhaps that was why I stumbled so blindly into the mess I had lived through—because I couldn't read others the way I could read my daughters.
The memories clawed their way back, sharper than I wished for. I saw myself, a younger me, standing in front of my mother. My voice had shaken, but I spoke anyway:
"I remember. I remember how you beat me every day when I was a child."
She had looked at me with that same cold face, but I didn't stop.
"The moment I could write, I started keeping track. I wrote it down, every punishment, every blow. Day after day. I stopped only because it didn't matter anymore—it made no difference. A day without being beaten… that would have been something new."
Even now the memory made my chest tighten. I had promised myself back then, in secret and silence: I will not be that kind of parent. I will never let my children feel this kind of fear from me.
But what shook me most wasn't the memories. It was her response.
She looked me in the eyes and said, almost casually, "No, I didn't. You imagine these things. You were just a child imagining things."
Her words cut deeper than any slap ever had.
For a heartbeat I almost doubted myself. Almost. But I knew. I knew the truth. She would never admit it. And that denial—that twisting of reality—was another wound layered on top of all the others.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, and that silent vow I once made burned stronger: I will never be like you. I will never let my children grow up doubting their own pain.
I tried calling my girls again and again, but the screen stayed dark, no answer. My chest tightened. Two days passed in silence until finally, a message came from my ex.
"They're with your mother."
For a second, the words didn't register. Then they did—and all kinds of thoughts crashed through my head. My mother, the very person whose hands had left invisible scars on me. My mother, who denied it all, who smiled while twisting the knife.
My hands trembled as I held the phone. Fear, anger, grief—all tangled until I could barely breathe.
My mind spun with images I couldn't control. What if she grew angry—would she slap their cheeks, yank their hair, pull at their ears, or strike them the way she once struck me? Had she changed over the years, or was she still the same? I didn't know. And worst of all—I couldn't do anything. I could only wait.
A memory cut through me, sharp as glass. Once, when I visited her with my girls, she punished my youngest and made her sit on the stairs for half an hour. I can still hear her cries, and still feel the weight of my own paralysis. I hadn't protected her—I'd been too stunned, too afraid, too conditioned by my own past. At last I went to her, wrapped her in my arms, whispering that it would be all right once the punishment was over.
When I confronted my mother, telling her that another child—the cousin—was at fault too, she looked at me with cold control. "Your kids don't know discipline," she said.
As I drowned in my worry, the storm inside me rising higher with every imagined danger, Sebastian came to me. His presence steadied the air around me. He pulled me close and spoke in that calm, steady tone that always reached me.
"I know you worry," he said softly. "But keep in mind—we can rebuild. And when we can, we'll bring them here, to safety. No one will touch them then. No one will ever get to them."
His words didn't erase the ache, but they gave me something to hold onto—a thread of hope stronger than the darkness of my thoughts.