“You and those kids — OUT!” my husband screamed, his face red with rage. At first, I thought it was just another one of his temper tantrums, one that would pass like always. But this time was different. He began tearing our clothes from the closets, shoving them into garbage bags, his voice venomous: “You’re useless!”
Two hours later, I found myself standing in the driveway, three children crying at my side, as he slammed the front door and locked it behind us. He even snatched away my keys. I stood frozen, staring at the house that used to be our home, praying for the door to open again. But it didn’t.
Little Michael tugged at my sleeve, his face wet with tears. “Mom,” he whispered, “did Daddy stop loving us?”
My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. I wanted to scream, to run back inside, to make it all un-happen. But all I had was three scared kids, the clothes on our backs, and a night full of cold silence. No money. No plan. No place to go.
And then I remembered it — the old, crumbling house next door. Everyone in town whispered about it. They said the man who lived there was dangerous, a recluse who scared children away with a single glare. I had never even seen him leave his yard.
But standing there in the dark, my kids trembling, I realized I had no choice. That house — and the man inside — might be the only hope we had left.
With my heart pounding, I took my children’s hands and walked toward the porch that everyone else avoided.
