The morning air felt gentle, almost like the world was apologizing for the night before. I didn't wake the girls—I let them stretch and yawn on their own, rubbing their sleepy eyes as their hair stuck up in funny little angles.
"Can we go outside today?" my youngest asked, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
"Yes," I said softly. "Let's go somewhere with space to run."
We walked hand in hand toward the sports park—the one with the old tennis court, the faded volleyball net, and the small playground tucked between tall, whispering trees. Sunlight leaked through the branches in golden drops.
When we reached the court, it was quiet. The lines were cracked, but the whole place felt free. The girls didn't even wait—they ran ahead, their tiny shoes tapping on the ground as if the world was applauding them.
I sat on the bench for a moment, inhaling the peace.
"Look, mama!" my older girl shouted, holding a ball she found near the fence.
We played.
I tossed the ball lightly and they chased it, giggling, collapsing into soft piles of laughter. Then we went to the playground—climbing, sliding, and running back to me just to show me a leaf, a shiny rock, or a silly face.
We tried the volleyball net next. They didn't really know how to play, but they loved running underneath it, pretending it was a magic portal that turned them into superheroes.
I watched them with my heart swelling. So simple. So pure. So painfully precious after everything I'd been through.
"Can we run around the tennis court again?" my younger asked.
"Yes, go," I said, kneeling to fix her shoelaces.
They sprinted off together, arms stretched out like airplanes. I walked behind them slowly, feeling the sunlight warm my face. My body felt lighter today—maybe because they were safe in front of me, maybe because their laughter was louder than last night's silence.
At one corner of the court, they stopped.
"Can we draw on the ground?" my older one asked.
I nodded and handed them sticks. They knelt and started scratching crooked hearts, suns, and wobbly animals into the dust. One heart was bigger than the others.
"What's that one?" I asked.
"That's you," my older daughter said. "And we live inside."
My throat tightened. I blinked slowly, letting the emotion pass gently through me, like a wave—one that didn't drown me this time, just washed through and reminded me of who I was.
We kept walking afterward, through the little paths near the forest edge. Leaves crunched under our feet. The girls held hands, swinging their arms, humming random songs.
"Can we come again tomorrow, mama?"
"We can come every day," I whispered.
And for a moment—just a moment—the world felt good. Simple. Alive. Mine.
That night, after a long day full of sunshine and laughter, after the girls fell asleep with messy hair and warm cheeks, I finally lay down in my own bed. I hoped for rest. I hoped for softness. I hoped the peace from the playground would follow me into my dreams.
But instead… the shadows came.
It started quietly.
I found myself standing in an empty room—white walls, no windows, cold air brushing against my skin. I was holding something small in my hands: a fragile, glowing orb of light. Warm. Gentle. Mine.
Then the door opened.
He stepped in.
My ex—exactly as he always looked in his worst moments: stiff shoulders, cold eyes, that familiar crooked smirk that always meant destruction. In dreams he felt bigger, heavier, darker. His shadow stretched unnaturally across the floor.
He walked toward me slowly, like he already owned everything in the room… including my breath.
"What is that?" he asked, nodding toward the light in my hands.
I held it closer. "It's mine," I whispered.
He laughed—a sharp, cruel, echoing sound. "Nothing you build stays yours."
And he snapped his fingers.
Around me, everything I'd worked for appeared—my new friendships, my kids' smiles, my growing strength, my small home, my books, my hopes—all floating in delicate, glass-like shapes around the room.
I gasped. They shimmered like memories caught in crystal.
He walked past me and touched one with just a fingertip.
Crack.
A fracture shot through it.
"No…" I breathed.
Crack. Crack.
He moved from one to another, calmly destroying everything. My friendships turned to dust. My book signings collapsed like ashes. My daughters' laughter cracked like thin ice and disappeared.
"Please… stop…" I begged, trying to move—but in the dream, my legs were made of stone. My voice felt trapped.
He didn't stop. He shattered everything until only one glass orb was left:
The light I had been holding at the beginning.
My core. My strength. My life.
He reached for it.
"You don't get to be happy," he said softly. "You never did."
He raised his hand to crush it.
I threw myself forward, screaming, "NO—!"
My fingers touched the orb first. Barely. But it was enough.
A shock of warmth burst through my hand, racing up my arm, flooding my body. Something inside me—small but fierce—fought back.
The light exploded outward.
He screamed.
He stumbled back, shrinking under the brightness.
This time I wasn't the small one.
He was.
The room shattered into pure white light until—
I woke up.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
My breath came in sharp gasps.
Sweat clung to my skin.
For a moment I thought I was still there.
But then I heard it.
Soft breathing.
My girls, safe in the next room.
I sat up slowly, pressing a trembling hand to my chest.
The room was dim but real.
Warm but real.
Mine.
Tears welled in my eyes—not just from fear, but from understanding.
The dream wasn't only torture.
It was truth.
He did try to destroy everything.
He did try to break my light.
But in the dream, I stopped him.
And as the realization settled deep into my bones, I whispered into the dark:
"I'm not afraid of you anymore."
The nightmare shook me, but it confirmed something I had been slowly discovering:
My light doesn't belong to him.
It belongs to me.
And no matter how many shadows he casts—
I am learning to burn brighter.