Rebuilt: book one

The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the washer down the hall and Elijah and Moses arguing over which cartoon to watch. I leaned back in my chair at my pink desk, Pepsi can sweating on the coaster beside me, and stared at my phone screen like it was daring me to move.

Hily. The app glowed at me, obnoxious in its simplicity. Just swipe, just click, just open yourself up to the possibility of being seen.

It was stupid. It was dangerous. It was hope.

I thought of all the times I swore I'd never do this again. Never open my life to a man, never invite someone into the world I'd built from ashes. Because every time I had before, it had cost me. My body, my mind, my sense of worth. I carried the proof in scars I didn't always let myself look at.

And yet here I was, thumb hovering over a download icon.

Aj had asked me that morning why I looked so tired. He's eleven, old enough to catch the weight under my eyes, young enough to still believe he can fix it with a joke and a hug. He's protective in ways no child should be, but it's the only way he knows how to love me.

Elijah, five, was bouncing off the couch with his endless supply of questions: "Why do birds get to fly?" "Do fish get thirsty?" "Can we have cookies before lunch?" Moses, four, trailed behind him with his blanket half-dragging across the floor, quieter, but sharper, watching everything with those wide eyes that don't miss a thing.

They are my reason. My anchor. The only proof that I hadn't been completely swallowed by the past.

And still--I wanted more.

Not more children, not more chaos, but more of something. More than just surviving. More than being the woman who can stretch twenty dollars at Walmart until it groans, or the mother who hides tears in the laundry room because the boys don't deserve to see her fall apart.

I wanted to know if love was possible.

The memory of Walmart slammed into me then--not groceries, not the boys tugging at my hands, but that couple. The girl laughing, holding her man's hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth. His eyes never leaving her like she was the sun and he was the fool who finally found warmth. I'd seen them, just two strangers in the cereal aisle, and my chest cracked wide open. After they walked away, I'd broken down between Frosted Flakes and Lucky Charms, sobbing because I had never--not once in my thirty-three years--known what it felt like to be loved like that.

So I pressed download.

The boys' voices blurred into background noise as the app spun to life. Set up your profile. Choose your pictures. Write your bio. All of it felt like lying. What pictures could capture a woman who'd survived what I had? What words could explain that I was broken but still standing?

I typed carefully, each word like a hammer hitting steel:

Mom of three. Survivor. Not looking for games. Looking for real. I'm 5 foot 0 and very thin. You don't like thin women, keep swiping.

I stared at it for a long time before I saved it. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't polished. But it was true.

The first hours were a blur of swipes. Faces blured together, bios dripping with empty promises, pictures of men flexing in gym mirrors, holding fish, standing next to cars they probably didn't even know. A few messages came through--half hearted compliments, crude jokes, propositions that made my skin crawl. Figures, I thought. This was why I had sworn off trying.

But then I saw him.

Mike.

The first thing that caught me was his hair--bright red, wild in a way that felt untamed and honest. His eyes were the color of a clear sky after a storm, piercing blue, but not cold. Kind. Patient. Like he was used to waiting for things worth waiting for. His shoulders filled the frame of the photo, his height obvious even through pixels. 6 foot 5, I'd learn later. Built like someone who worked for every muscle, not just posed for them.

I almost swiped left, convinced he was too good to be real. But something about his smile stopped me. It wasn't cocky. It wasn't practiced. It looked like it had been caught mid-laugh, the kind of grin that could unspool the tightness in your chest if you weren't careful.

I swiped right.

And then--he matched me back.

My heart stuttered. My stomach twists in knots. A thousand doubts rushed in. He's going to think you're too broken. He's going to leave like the others. He's going to see you and realize you're not enough.

But then his first message came through. Simple. Steady.

Hey, beautiful. How's your night going?

Beautiful.

The word made my throat tight. I wanted to brush it off, to tell myself it didn't mean anything. But the truth was, no man had ever called me that without it being followed by a demand, an insult, a backhanded comment. For the first time in years, the word felt soft. Safe.

I typed back with trembling fingers: It's quiet. The boys are asleep. Just me and the phone glow. How's yours?

And just like that, something shifted.

The conversation flowed like it had been waiting for us. He asked about my boys--not just their names, but their pesonalities. Aj, my oldest at eleven, who carried the weight of a grown man's heart in his small body. Elijah, my five year old, wild and tender in the same breath. Moses, only four, sharp eyed and stubborn, my little shadow. Mike didn't flinch when I told him about then. He leaned in. He listened.

He didn't pry about my past, but he didn't run from the cracks I showed either. When I admitted I was a survivor, that my trust had been shattered more than once, he didn't go quiet. He simply said: Then I guess I'll just have to show you what it feels like to be safe.

Safe. The word felt foreign on my tongue, but for the first time, I let myself taste it.

Hours passed without me realizing. I laughed--really laughed--for the first time in months. He teased me, gentle, never cruel. He told me stories that made me forget the shadows for a little while. And as I finally set the phone down in the early morning hours, eyes burning, chest aching, I realized something terrifying.

Hope had cracked through the walls I'd built.

For the first time in a long time, I wanted to believe.