I still hear my own terrified whisper begging the 911 dispatcher to hurry, because I was certain the sudden silence downstairs meant I’d just lost my mom forever.

We moved into the shelter two days later.

It was a big brick building on the other side of town, with a locked front gate and security cameras by every door. Clara said no one could get in without an appointment, that Dad wouldn’t be able to find us here.

I still checked the locks on our room door every night.

Our room was small. Two twin beds, a dresser, a tiny window that looked out at the parking lot. Ethan thought it was an adventure. He ran around the room, jumping on the beds, laughing like we were on vacation.

I sat on the edge of my bed, holding the stuffed rabbit Mom had grabbed from our house before we left. It smelled like home, like laundry detergent and cinnamon. It also smelled like beer, and fear, and I almost threw it away.

Mom had therapy every day.

She’d leave the room in the morning, her shoulders tight, and come back a few hours later, red-eyed but calmer. She started talking about what Dad had done, slow at first, then all at once.

She told me about the first time he hit her, a year after we moved to Portland. She said she’d thought it was a mistake, that he’d never do it again. Then it happened again. And again. She said she stayed because she didn’t have any money, because she didn’t want us to grow up without a dad, because she was scared he’d hurt us worse if she left.

“I was stupid,” she said, sitting next to me on my bed one night, her voice rough.

I took her hand. Her cast was still bulky, the skin around it bruised.

“You weren’t stupid,” I said. “He was mean.”

She cried, and I held her hand, the way she used to hold mine when I had nightmares.

Ethan made a friend at the shelter’s playroom. A little boy named Javi, whose mom had also left a bad dad. They spent every afternoon playing with toy cars, building block towers that reached the ceiling.

I stayed in our room most days.

I didn’t like being around too many people. I didn’t like the sound of men’s voices, loud or quiet. Every time I heard someone yell down the hall, my chest would get tight, and I’d have to sit down and breathe until it passed.

Clara came to see us once a week. She brought us coloring books, and new clothes, and snacks that Ethan loved.

She talked to me about school, about starting at a new one in a few weeks. I told her I didn’t want to go. I said I wanted to stay in the room, where it was safe.

“Chloe,” she said, soft but firm. “You can’t hide forever. It’s okay to be scared. But you deserve to have a life, too.”

I didn’t believe her.

Until I found Ethan’s drawing.

He left it on my bed one afternoon, crayon scribbles on a piece of printer paper.

It was four stick figures. Me, him, Mom, and… no one else. The sun was in the corner, big and yellow. All of us were smiling. No bruises. No beer bottles. No shouting.

I sat on the floor and cried for an hour.

Mom found me there, holding the drawing. She sat down next to me, and wrapped her arm around my shoulders.

“I promise you,” she said, her voice steady, sure in a way I’d never heard before. “I will never let anyone hurt us again. Not David. Not anyone. We’re gonna have a good life. The three of us.”

I looked at the drawing, at Ethan’s messy crayon smile.

For the first time, I let myself hope she was right.