I was just four weeks post-partum when I packed up my belongings, my 4-week-old daughter by my side, and began the daunting task of moving everything I could into a 10×20 storage unit. It wasn’t easy. It took me over three weeks, countless trips in my Ford Explorer, loading whatever I could fit into that small space, and doing it all on my own.
By the grace of God, a friend and their family offered Ruby and I a roof over our heads for three months. At that point, I had nothing left. I was broke, with zero dollars to my name. I had stayed home for the last year, drained my entire bank account just to cover rent for the prior year and raise two children as my own while their father was away in community corrections, for the last 10 months. The past two years had been a blur of suffering in silence. I hid not only the emotional abuse but also the physical violence that took place behind closed doors.
A few friends knew about the physical abuse, but only because the injuries were severe enough to require medical attention. Within those two years, I had suffered a broken wrist, two broken ribs, been bear-maced in the face, and endured countless bruises and scars that I wore as silent reminders of the life I thought I had no way out of. But Ruby, she gave me strength. She was my reason to leave, to fight for a future of freedom and peace for both of us.
That day, on April 27, 2024, I began reclaiming my life and making the hard, yet necessary choices to protect her and myself.
That day, I promised Ruby that it would all end with us—that everything would stop right here, with her and me, until the very end. Momma's got you. It's just us now.
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