Chapter 1
2149words
"Mom?" Emma's voice suddenly pierced the darkness, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"Shh, baby, we're going on a trip, remember?" I tried to sound relaxed, but I knew she could sense my tension. Emma had always been perceptive, especially these past few months.
"Are we leaving now?" She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Even in the dim light, I could see the confusion and that flicker of fear in her eyes.
"Yes, now. We need to catch an early flight." I lied. We hadn't booked any flights at all; we were taking a long-distance bus because it would be harder to track. I'd already bought the tickets with cash, and our destination was Orlando, Florida—a place I only knew from Disney World commercials.
Just as I was helping Emma get dressed, I heard a key sliding into the door lock. My blood turned to ice. Mark was back, and he'd been drinking—I could tell from his distinctive stumbling footsteps.
"Sarah!" His voice came through the door, slurred and angry. "I know you're in there! Open the goddamn door!"
Emma gripped my hand tightly, her little fingers ice-cold. I motioned for her to stay quiet, then quickly moved to the window. We lived on the eighteenth floor, but this was our only way out. The fire escape.
"Mom, I'm scared," Emma whispered, her voice barely audible.
"I know, baby, but we have to go. Now." I shouldered my backpack and grabbed the suitcase. The banging outside grew louder as Mark started ramming his body against the door. The lock wouldn't hold much longer.
We quietly slipped out through the back door and headed for the fire escape. The stairwell was dark, with only emergency lights casting an eerie green glow. We descended floor by floor, my heartbeat thundering in the silence. At every noise from above, I'd freeze and pull Emma close.
"Sara! You fucking bitch! You can't take my daughter away!" Mark's roar echoed down from above, bouncing off the concrete walls. He'd found our escape route.
We quickened our pace, practically running now. Emma was brave, not making a sound, though I could feel her trembling. Eighteen flights of stairs was too much for an eight-year-old, but we had no choice.
By the time we finally reached the first floor, we were gasping for breath. I pushed open the emergency door and the frigid New York winter air sliced through our clothes. A taxi was waiting at the corner—I'd called it three hours in advance. The driver, an older Black man, simply nodded when he saw us, asking no questions.
"Port Authority Bus Terminal," I told him, my voice still shaky.
As the taxi pulled away from the apartment building, I looked back. The place we'd called home for five years now looked like a prison. Lights blazed in our eighteenth-floor window, and I knew Mark was up there, raging. My phone buzzed frantically in my pocket, but I switched it off.
"Are we really not coming back?" Emma asked, her voice small but crystal clear in the quiet car.
"We're not coming back, baby. We're going to a new place, a sunny place." I held her tightly, drawing comfort from her small, warm body. "We're starting a new life."
That was the most honest thing I'd said in years.
---
Six hours later, we sat on a Greyhound bus heading south. Emma had fallen asleep, her head on my shoulder. The scenery outside gradually morphed from New York's towering skyscrapers to suburban sprawl, then to southern farmlands. Every mile put between us made me breathe a little easier.
I thought about two years ago, when Mark hit me for the first time. I told myself it was just an accident. He was under a lot of stress—the market was tanking, his investment firm was laying people off. I made a thousand excuses for him. The second time, the third time, always a new excuse. It wasn't until he started screaming at Emma that I realized how deep the hole had become.
"Mom," Emma mumbled in her sleep, "will Dad find us?"
"No, baby." I gently stroked her hair. "The place we're going is far away. He won't find us."
But I knew that wasn't entirely true. Mark had money and connections. If he really wanted to find us, he would. But at least for now, we were safe. At least for now, we were free.
The bus rolled into Orlando at four in the afternoon. The sun blazed overhead, the temperature a full twenty degrees warmer than New York. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze, the air heavy with the scent of flowers. It was exactly as beautiful as I'd imagined.
We lugged our suitcases toward a taxi, a printed address clutched in my hand. It was an apartment I'd found online a month ago, in a quiet neighborhood near downtown. The rent was reasonable, and the landlord accepted cash payments without requiring a credit check. Perfect for someone needing to stay off the grid.
"You ladies here on vacation?" asked the taxi driver, an enthusiastic middle-aged Latino man with a thick accent.
"No, we're moving here," I said.
"Welcome to Sunshine City!" He flashed a broad smile. "You gonna love it here. People friendly, weather beautiful—perfect for a fresh start, yeah?"
A fresh start. The phrase sounded almost magical, brimming with possibility. I glanced at Emma, who was pressing her nose against the window, taking in the new city. The fear in her eyes had vanished, replaced by wonder and curiosity.
"Mom, what's that?" She pointed at a towering castle-like structure in the distance.
"That's Disney World, sweetheart. Once we get settled, we'll go there."
"Really?" Her face lit up with the first genuine smile I'd seen in months.
"Really," I promised, feeling a spark of genuine hope ignite in my chest.
Our new apartment was in Magnolia Heights, a neighborhood built in the 1960s with classic Florida architecture—low-slung buildings, pastel colors, and lush tropical landscaping. Our unit was on the second floor, a two-bedroom facing a small swimming pool.
The landlord was an elderly woman named Marian, who greeted us warmly. "Welcome, welcome! Y'all from up north, aren't ya? I can tell from your accent," she said with a broad smile. "This place'll become home before you know it, I guarantee it."
The apartment was small but clean. The living room featured a large window, sunlight filtering through the blinds to cast dappled shadows on the floor. The kitchen was dated but well-equipped. Emma's room overlooked the backyard, with a view of a small citrus grove.
"Mom, I like it here," Emma said, twirling around the empty living room. "It feels safe."
Safety. This was the first time she'd actively used that word. My eyes welled up.
We spent the afternoon at Walmart buying necessities—bedding, basic kitchenware, groceries. Emma insisted on a small teddy bear, saying it would protect our new home. I couldn't say no.
When we returned to the apartment, the sun was setting in a blaze of orange and pink. We sat in the living room, eating supermarket sandwiches, listening to birds chirping outside. This was the first time my daughter and I had truly been alone together—no fear, no tension, just peace.
"Mom," Emma suddenly asked, "will we make friends here?"
"Of course, baby. We'll make wonderful friends."
Just then, music drifted up from downstairs. The strumming of a guitar, accompanied by a young woman's voice. The singing was beautiful, rich with Latin warmth.
Emma perked up instantly. "Mom, can we go see?"
I hesitated. Over the past few years, I'd learned to be wary of strangers. But this wasn't New York, this wasn't Mark's world. This was our fresh start.
"Alright," I said, "Let's go check it out."
We descended the stairs to the courtyard. The music was clearer now, coming from a unit in the corner. The door stood open, revealing several young people sitting together, jamming.
A young woman with flowing black hair noticed us. She stopped playing and waved. "Hey there! Are you the new neighbors?"
She looked to be in her early twenties, with sun-kissed skin and eyes that sparkled with kindness. Her smile was warm and genuine, making my tense nerves unwind a little.
"Yes, we just moved in today," I said, unconsciously taking a step back. Old habits die hard.
"Awesome! I'm Luna, Luna Rodriguez." She stood up and approached us. "And this little cutie must be your daughter, right?"
"I'm Emma." Emma stepped forward—braver than me—"Your music sounds really cool."
"Thanks! We're a band called 'Moonlight Path.' Do you like music?"
Emma nodded eagerly, her eyes drawn to the instruments. She glanced back at me, silently asking permission.
"We don't want to interrupt your practice..." I started to say.
"Oh, don't worry about it!" Luna waved dismissively. "We were just taking a break. Want to come in? I can whip up some lemonade."
Her friendliness caught me off guard. In New York, neighbors barely acknowledged each other's existence. But Emma was already bouncing with eagerness.
"Alright, just for a little while," I finally agreed.
Luna's apartment was decorated with bohemian flair—colorful artwork adorning the walls, various guitars propped in the corner. Her bandmates were all young and welcoming. There was a drummer named Miguel and a guitarist named Jack. Jack seemed older than the others, probably early thirties, with kind eyes and an easy smile.
"So where are you guys from?" Luna asked while pouring lemonade.
"New York," I answered curtly, not wanting to elaborate.
"Wow, Big Apple to Mickey Mouse land—quite the change," Jack remarked, his voice deep and warm. "Job transfer?"
I hesitated, unsure how to respond. I couldn't exactly say we were fugitives running from an abusive husband.
"Yeah, something like that," I said vaguely.
Emma had already gravitated toward a small guitar in the corner. "Can I touch it?" she asked Luna.
"Of course you can!" Luna encouraged. "Ever played before?"
"No, but I want to learn." Emma carefully plucked a string, her face lighting up at the clear note.
"I could show you some basic chords," Jack offered, crouching beside Emma. "This guitar's actually perfect for someone your size."
I watched this stranger approach my daughter, my internal alarm blaring. But Jack's movements were careful and respectful; he maintained appropriate distance, simply showing Emma how to position her fingers on the fretboard.
"Your mom could learn too," Luna said, glancing my way. "Music helps... with new beginnings."
The way she said "new beginnings" made me wonder if she knew more than she let on. But her eyes held no pity, only understanding. Perhaps she'd walked a similar path.
We stayed for an hour, listening to them play while Emma experimented with the guitar. For the first time in months, I felt my shoulders drop, my guard lower. These people didn't pry, didn't dig into our past—they simply welcomed us.
As we prepared to leave, Luna approached me. "If you need anything—anything at all—just holler. Starting over in a new place isn't easy."
Her words caught me off guard, making my eyes sting. "Thank you. We... we appreciate that."
"I'm starting school tomorrow," Emma told Jack, "and I'll practice those chords you showed me."
"Awesome," Jack smiled. "Can't wait to hear how you progress."
Back in our apartment, Emma chattered excitedly about her new friends. I couldn't remember the last time she'd been this animated.
"Mom, I think we're going to be happy here," she said, wrapping her arms around me.
"I think so too, baby," I whispered, hugging her back, my heart swelling with hope.
As night fell, we curled up on our newly purchased bed, listening to the gentle breeze and distant music floating through the window. Our first night in Orlando. The first night of our new life.
When Emma drifted off, I quietly checked the door locks and secured all windows. Old habits die hard. But when I finally lay down, I didn't lie awake listening for footsteps. Instead, I felt an unfamiliar sense of peace.
Perhaps, just perhaps, we could truly start over here. Maybe we could actually find happiness in this city of eternal sunshine.
Outside the window, moonlight spilled through the blinds in silver ribbons, while the soft strumming of a guitar from downstairs served as a gentle lullaby, easing us into dreams.
This was our first peaceful night since fleeing New York—the true beginning of our new life.
