I was not his wife. I was not his victim. I was not nothing.
I was Claire. I was strong. I was free.
The final image: I stood in my kitchen, making breakfast. Not for anyone else. Just for me. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. I set the table for one. I sat down. I ate slowly. The sun streamed through the window. And on the counter, beside the coffee cup, the journal sat open. The pages were filled with a boy’s pain. A boy’s silence. A boy’s survival.
I closed the journal. I put it in a drawer. I didn’t need to read it anymore.
I was home.
The Silence That Broke
