It was late, almost 2 a.m. I was frantically packing everything, my heart pounding in my chest.
I glanced at my son, Barry, asleep in his crib, and knew I couldn’t waste another second. My mind was made up. I took a deep breath, hoisted him into my arms, and just ran. I didn’t even take off my house slippers or robe: I was in such a hurry. Barry began to stir, crying softly. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to calm him with my sleeve. It was dark and cold, but I kept running, pushing through the fear and the exhaustion. My parents lived in the neighboring district. It wasn’t far, but it felt like an eternity with the weight of my baby in my arms and the panic in my heart. I finally reached their house, banging on the door with my fists and feet, gasping for breath. “Mom! Dad! Please, open up!” I shouted, my voice cracking. The door swung open, and my mother stood there, eyes wide with shock. “Candice? What on earth?” “Please, let me in. I… I can’t go back,” I managed to say, my voice trembling. They ushered me inside, and my father took Barry from my arms, cooing softly to calm him down. My mother wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and led me to the couch. “Tell us what happened,” she urged gently. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “It’s Martin. It’s… it’s everything. I can’t take it anymore.” My mother’s eyes softened with concern. “What do you mean, honey? Did he hurt you?” “No, not physically,” I admitted, shaking my head. “But emotionally… he’s been obsessed with his projects. He spends hours in the basement every night, and I’m left alone with Barry. I thought maybe he was just stressed or needed an outlet, but tonight I found out the truth.”