Chapter 1: The Night She Chose to Run
Hannah learned to recognize the sound of his footsteps long before she learned how to sleep through the night.
The uneven drag. The heavy thud. The clink of bottles she pretended not to notice. Every sound carried a warning, and every warning tightened the knot in her chest. Alcohol had changed him—no, revealed him. What once passed for charm had turned sharp and cruel, his words slurred but cutting, his temper unpredictable and fast.
She told herself it wasn’t always like this. She told herself she could manage it. She told herself she was strong.
But Lily was only three.
And Lily didn’t understand why Mommy flinched when doors slammed or why the house felt smaller when he drank. She didn’t understand why Hannah held her a little tighter at night or whispered prayers over her while tears soaked the pillow.
That night, the shouting came faster than usual.
Hannah had tried to keep the peace—quiet dinner, Lily already bathed and playing quietly in her room, lights low. She prayed silently while he drank, counting breaths, asking God to let this night pass without breaking something precious.
But fear doesn’t listen to prayers fuelled by denial.
His anger flared when Lily ran through to the kitchen to show her a drawing she made of a unicorn. “Don’t run in the house!”, he said. Always too loud. Before Hannah could reach her, his patience snapped. His hands—once familiar, once safe—became something Hannah didn’t recognize. He striked Lily across the face. The moment was brief. But eternity fit inside it.
Hannah saw Lily’s wide eyes. Heard a sound no child should make. And something inside her rose up—fierce, unshakable, holy.
“No,” Hannah said, her voice stronger than she felt. “You will not touch her.”
She didn’t wait for apologies. She didn’t wait for promises. She didn’t wait for morning.
Hannah grabbed Lily, shaking and crying, and locked them in the bathroom until the house went silent again. Clint shouted, kicked the door, trying to get to them. What felt like eternity, the house went silent. Hannah quickly and quietly opened the door and rushed to the bedroom to pack only essentials. Clothes. Lily’s favourite stuffed rabbit. Important papers. Her Bible—the one her grandmother gave her, pages worn thin from years of hoping God was still listening.
She quickly walked out to her rusty ford, clint had passed out on the couch.
Her hands trembled as she tucked Lily into the backseat with a blanket. Lily hiccupped softly, exhausted from fear, clutching Hannah’s sleeve.
“Mommy?” she whispered.
“I’ve got you,” Hannah said, her voice breaking. “I promise.”
Hannah reversed out of the driveway, the only light was the moon shining brightly in the sky, Hannah didn’t know where she was going.
She only knew where she could no longer stay.
As the miles passed, the guilt crept in—What if I’m wrong? What if I’m overreacting? What if God wanted me to endure? But each time doubt whispered, Hannah looked at Lily sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks, and the answer came clear and steady.
Love protects. Love leaves when it must. And God walks with those who run toward safety.
By the time the ocean air reached her lungs, Hannah was no longer running away.
She was running home—even if she didn’t yet know where that was.
