I’m sitting here now, just waiting. I don’t know what happens tomorrow. I don’t know how I’m going to walk out that door for work ever again. I only know that the girl I raised is hiding inside her own skin, and I am the one who handed her over to him.

I went into the kitchen after she finally fell asleep. I looked at the table where we ate dinner. I looked at the spot where she sat. It felt like a crime scene. I touched the wood of the chair and thought about her standing in that corner, shaking, waiting for me to come back and save her.

I didn’t. I stayed at work. I earned the money for the rent. I bought the groceries. I was the provider, and he was the warden.

I don’t expect anybody to tell me I did right. I know I didn’t. I lost the only thing that mattered while I was chasing a life that didn’t exist.

I’ll be honest with you, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at this house the same way again. Every room has a shadow. Every corner has a ghost of a little girl standing there, doing what she was told so she wouldn’t lose her mother.

I have to go now. I hear him pulling into the driveway. I have to look him in the eye and pretend I don’t know. I have to be strong for her, even if it kills me.

It cost me everything. It cost me her trust. It cost me my home. And I know, deep down, it’s going to cost me a whole lot more before this is all done. But for the first time in two years, I’m not asking permission to be angry.