Heather T Stone

Just when I think I have it all together, I burst into tears in the middle of signing my daughter up for preschool.

I know what you’re thinking. Happens to a lot of moms. That whole attachment, letting go of your baby thing.

That’s not why.

I wasn’t thinking of the future and having to let go of her hand. I cried about the past, and the last person’s hand I had to let go of.

Last time I signed a kid up for daycare, I was a recent DV survivor with an expired order of protection and not a lot of options. I was terrified to walk in the door every day, worried I was being followed, he’d be kidnapped, I’d be abducted, or worse. That this time, he’d make good on his threats.

Even telling daycare about my situation felt risky. I didn’t want to be ostracized or told I couldn’t stay there.

That had happened before, when I first fled. I went to stay with a family member in their apartment, and he found me there.

Threats of death. Kidnapping. An admission that he slashed my tires. There’s a 911 tape somewhere.

I won a court case over this. Got a few hundred dollars and more trauma to add to the already long list.

I wasn’t allowed to stay at that apartment anymore. They didn’t want my kind of trouble around, so I moved in the middle of the night.

Then I moved again.

And again.

Until eventually we bought a house.

Life’s a lot different now. Better. Calmer.

I’m still a survivor. Healing, but surviving.

This time, I had options.

I chose somewhere familiar. Somewhere I already knew was safe.

The owner met us outside with open arms and big hugs. She remembered us both.

We toured outside near the playground, went into one of the classrooms, met a teacher, saw the book corner and the mini kitchen.

That’s when I realized my eyes were wet.

Not pooling.

Just wet.

We moved on to where the older kids were. The room my son started in a lifetime ago.

One glance at the door was all it took to dig up memories I hadn’t touched in years.

When I did this tour with my son, I wasn’t looking at cubbies and kitchens.

I was watching the door.

Praying I wasn’t followed.

The only questions I had were about security.

Was the door locked? Did they have cameras? Who had access? Any picture in the preschool newsletter felt like it could give us away.

My eyes felt wetter.

Heavier.

My emotions caught me off guard.

She started talking about their new app that lets you see pictures of the kids. I remembered how terrified I would have been if this existed back then, when I was signing off on every paper necessary to keep my son out of the media and off his school website.

She pulled out her phone to show me the app.

My eyes started to burn and crest over.

The thought of not having to sign those papers broke me open a little.

There I was with my husband, daughter, the two owners of the daycare, and an office worker.

I started to cry.

Silently.

She handed me a tissue with a side of empathy. I’m sure she assumed she understood the tears.

But that wasn’t it.

Have you ever had a moment where you’re fighting so hard to keep yourself together that you just know you’ll lose it the second you try to explain?

That the next word will send you over the edge, your voice will crack, and all that terror and sorrow will finally come out.

I choked on the first try, swallowed it back and spelled it out in as few words as possible.

“I am a DV survivor. This is triggering me.”

And the dam finally broke.

My past, summed up into a short story told in a shaky voice. Relieved to get it out there. Slightly embarrassed everyone saw me lose it.

But I’m okay with that.

Instead of another tissue, she offered a hug. And I accepted, quietly crying. Part grief, part trauma and a whole lot of gratitude that I got a second chance to do it over.

I really am grateful for who I am now.

Because I never thought, this is who I could be.

And here I am, being it.

She’s signed up for the fall, a little nervous, but super excited.

We even got invited to a bouncy house party next week, free of charge.

I’d say they treat you like family here, but it’s so much better than what I’m used to.

I’m looking forward to the future.

Because we’re both going to grow here, together.

Sometimes, baby steps can get you pretty far.

Especially when you’re not walking alone.

Pic of me, circa 1986.