My voice collapsed.
She took my hand.
“Nothing you did made him entitled to hurt you.”
I looked at her.
For the first time, I allowed myself to consider that she might be right.
The next three weeks were harder than I expected.
Leaving Brandon hadn’t instantly made me feel free.
It had made me frightened in new ways.
I worried whenever Jasmine was late.
I checked the locks repeatedly.
I dreamed about Brandon finding me.
Some mornings, I woke up convinced I had made a terrible mistake.
Then I remembered his hand around my wrist.
The threats.
The way he’d told me nobody else would ever want me.
And I reminded myself why I’d left.
With help from a domestic violence advocate, I began working on a safety plan.
I changed passwords.
Reviewed my accounts.
Preserved messages and photographs.
Spoke to an attorney about separation and protective orders.
And started counseling.
