Page 30 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
“Hey...” I said gently.
I made sure my voice carried no sharpness. Just quiet reassurance.
“It’s okay.”
Another breath hitched.
Closer this time.
Before I could say anything else—
Small arms wrapped tightly around my waist.
I flinched hard.
The reaction was instant, my body recoiling before my mind could catch up.
Every muscle locked, my skin crawling as something cold and familiar tried to drag me backward into memories I refused to revisit.
Touch.
I hated it.
It didn’t matter who it was. It didn’t matter why.
A few seconds—I could tolerate that. I could force myself to stay still, to breathe through it, to pretend I was somewhere else entirely.
Anything longer—
My throat tightened, cutting the thought off before it could fully form, my body already bracing for something I didn’t want to remember.
But the arms didn’t hurt me.
They clung desperately.
A small body pressed against mine, trembling so badly I could feel it through every layer between us.
She was terrified—the kind of terror that came from pure instinct—the need to hold onto something, anything, that felt safer than whatever waited behind you.
I froze for half a second longer.
Then I forced myself to breathe.
“This isn’t him,” I told myself silently—the man who had ruined me, who had made me hate touch, who had rewritten my body’s understanding of safety. “This isn’t danger. This touch won’t lead to pain. It won’t lead to agony.”
I held onto that thought like an anchor, even as my pulse refused to slow.
Carefully—very carefully—I let my hand lift.
Then, slowly, I placed my palm against the child’s back.
She was so small.
The frame beneath my palm was fragile, the bones delicate under thin fabric.
But she didn’t stop trembling. If anything, it intensified for a moment, before slowly easing into something quieter, but no less desperate.
“It’s okay,” I repeated softly, my voice lower now, “You’re safe.”
