My heart aches as I tear my eyes away from my home for the last time. I blink away tears and face the road, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I say a silent goodbye to the first place that ever felt my own, the place where I became a mother, a wife. The place that I lived the perfect life, until it all went wrong. My knuckles turn white from the strain, as though holding onto the wheel will keep me held together as well. We pass by fields of corn, the tall stalks fading into a blur of green through the windows. I glance into the rear view at Maya. Silky brown hair hangs in her face, hiding her expression from me. Darkened wet spots on her shirt let me know that she’s been crying. It breaks me even more to watch my daughter cry. At three years old, this is the only house she’s ever known- the only place that has ever been home to her. I reach back and squeeze her knee, trying to reassure her- and myself- that everything will be alright. The sun is setting and I know we will have to park somewhere soon. I imagine driving through the night, only stopping to fill the tank with gas. I contemplate drive forever, until we reach a place that feels like home where we could start over.

I think if what lies ahead and my stomach churns. We can’t go home- he’s there. We can’t go to the police or he’ll report the car as stolen- our only shelter from the elements. I drive until I reach the next town over. I find the local park and stop the car in the far back corner of the lot, turning off the lights and locking the doors. I step out and pull Maya her car seat. I get back in, in the passenger seat this time, and recline the seat as far back as it will go, resting her on my chest. I pull a blanket over us both and set an alarm on my phone for 5 AM- that should be early enough.

I close my eyes and wish for sleep, for this to all be a dream, for everything we left behind us to be there when we wake up.

When I was young, people always told me I would be a heartbreaker. I don’t think this is what they meant. I stare in the mirror and pick apart my dull features. Dark circles ringed my too small eyes, the effects of a hundred poor nights sleep. My forehead, too large and starting to wrinkle from worry at only the age of 27. I tried Botox once, but it made me feel fake. It doesn’t matter how hard I pretend or how much plastic I fill my body full of; I’ll always be who I am. I tear myself to pieces in front of the mirror, telling myself what everyone else must already be thinking. ‘You look tired.’ ‘Are you okay? You don’t look like yourself.’ ‘You should smile more.’ I contort my face into a smile, pulling my lips up at the edges, trying to make it reach my eyes. It looks fake, I relax my face back into the semi-permanent scowl that has dominated my features recently.

A quick knock on the door brings me back to reality. Loud music pours in from bar as I open it, the doorknob sticky and the hinges squealing with age. I return to the counter and slide onto the stool with the grace and elegance of a toddler who has yet to learn the size of its own body. I flag down the bartender and point to my empty glass, indicating the need for another round. As he pours my tequila, I wonder to myself if I’ll make it to work tomorrow. Someone I bound to notice soon- my poor attendance and unprofessional appearance likely will end the career I worked so hard to obtain. I down the drink in one quick gulp and slide the glass back across the counter. The warmth of the alcohol slivers down my throat and spreads into my chest, making it even more challenging to care about the things that used to dominate my life. The bartender raises an eyebrow at me. “C’mon. It can’t be that bad. Smile.” I put exact change on the bar and get up from my seat. I wouldn’t have tipped him even if I could afford to.

I stumble out of the bar and into the cold night air, breathing deeply. It burns my nose. I think of my daughter, at home by herself, waiting for a bedtime story that will never come. I think of my mother, up late at night worrying about whether or not I’ll make it home. I think of myself, at the age of 16, a smile on my face dreaming of what the future will hold. When I was young, people always told me I would be a heartbreaker. I don’t think this is what they meant.