Page 207 of Terms of Exposure
"I'm not going to ask what's going on," she said. "That's your business. And Emma's, if you choose to share it."
A pause.
"But I want you to know something."
I waited.
"You don't have to carry it alone. Not in this house."
Her smile softened. "You're family now, Candace. Whether you like it or not."
Family.
"Mrs. Holt—"
"Rosie," she corrected gently.
"Rosie." I swallowed hard. "I appreciate that. Really. But I'm fine. I'm just... going through some stuff with an ex. It's not a big deal."
The lie tasted stale on my tongue.
Rosie nodded slowly, like she'd expected that answer.
"You know," she said, her tone shifting into something more conversational, "I'm not sure how much the boys have told you about their father."
The pivot caught me off guard.
"Not much," I admitted. "Sebastian mentioned he wasn't... around."
"That's one way to put it." Rosie's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I left the first time when Sebastian was three. Damien was five—old enough to remember."
"I'm not bringing this up to draw comparisons," she continued carefully. "I don't know what you're dealing with, and I'm not going to pretend I do. But..." She paused, choosing her words. "I spent a lot of years in that marriage convincing myself I was fine. That things weren't that bad. That I could handle it on my own."
The pipes groaned overhead.
"And I did handle it. For a while." Her fingers traced the arm of the chair absently. "Until I couldn't."
"Rosie, I—"
"We had a tumultuous relationship," she continued. "He'd scream. And he'd beat me." She took in a shaky breath. "I tried to protect the kids the best I could, but Damien…" she trailed off.
"Damien saw more than he should have. He tried to protect me. Tried to protect Sebastian. Put himself between us and his fathermore times than any child ever should. I was so proud of myself when I finally got the courage to leave." She laughed dryly. "I still remember it to this day. I had to search for the car keys quietly for hours."
"He always used to hide them," she explained, words strained. "Wouldn't let me leave the house without permission. So when I couldn't find them…" She shrugged. "We ran. I packed each of the boys a bag and we took off down the road when he was in the shower."
I pictured it—Rosie, younger, terrified, herding two small boys down a dark road with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
"We walked three miles to a gas station," she continued. "I called my friend from a payphone. She drove four hours in the middle of the night to pick us up." A sad smile crossed her face. "I didn't have a dollar to my name. No job. No plan. Just two boys and a garbage bag full of clothes."
"For months, I kept waiting for him to find us. Every time the phone rang, every time a car slowed down outside..." She shook her head. "I jumped at shadows for years. Kept a bag packed by the door, just in case. The boys didn't know, but I was ready to run again at any moment."
My throat ached.
My phone. The block button I couldn't press.
"He chased after me," she continued. "He always did."
"Why are you telling me this?" The question came out barely above a whisper.
