By the time our SUV reached the airport, my hands had finally stopped shaking.
Not because I felt brave.
Not because I had suddenly become the kind of woman who could walk away from ten years of marriage without looking back.
I had stopped shaking because Noah had fallen asleep with his cheek pressed against the window, his dinosaur backpack still clutched in both arms, and Lily had leaned into my side, her little fingers wrapped around the sleeve of my cardigan.
Children had a way of making pain wait its turn.
For years, I had told myself that if I could just protect them from the worst of Ryan’s temper, the coldness of his mother, the casual cruelty of his sister, then maybe I could still call myself a good mother. I had mistaken endurance for strength. I had thought staying quiet meant keeping the peace.
But peace built on silence was never peace.
