Jasmine’s eyes filled.
“Hannah…”
“I thought maybe I was too sensitive. Maybe I made him angry. Maybe if I kept the house cleaner or stopped disagreeing—”
My voice collapsed.
She took my hand.
“Nothing you did made him entitled to hurt you.”
I looked at her.
For the first time, I allowed myself to consider that she might be right.
The next three weeks were harder than I expected.
Leaving Brandon hadn’t instantly made me feel free.
It had made me frightened in new ways.
I worried whenever Jasmine was late.
I checked the locks repeatedly.
I dreamed about Brandon finding me.
Some mornings, I woke up convinced I had made a terrible mistake.
Then I remembered his hand around my wrist.
The threats.
The way he’d told me nobody else would ever want me.
And I reminded myself why I’d left.
With help from a domestic violence advocate, I began working on a safety plan.
I changed passwords.
Reviewed my accounts.
Preserved messages and photographs.
Spoke to an attorney about separation and protective orders.
And started counseling.
The counselor’s name was Dr. Elaine Foster.
She had a gentle voice and a habit of waiting patiently when I struggled to speak.
During our second appointment, she asked me a question that stayed with me.
“When you imagine the future, what do you want?”
I stared.
Nobody had asked me that in years.
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
“That’s an honest place to start.”
I looked down.
“I used to paint.”
“Paint?”
“Watercolors. Mostly landscapes.”
“What happened?”
“Brandon said it was childish.”
Dr. Foster waited.
“He threw away my supplies when we moved into his house.”
My throat tightened.
“He said married women should have better priorities.”
The counselor nodded slowly.
“And what do you think?”
I looked at her.
For once, I didn’t automatically reach for Brandon’s answer.
“I think I miss painting.”
She smiled.
“Then perhaps that’s something worth remembering.”
That afternoon, Jasmine took me to an art supply store.
I stood in front of rows of watercolor sets, staring at colors I hadn’t touched in years.
Blue.
Green.
Gold.
Soft lavender.
Jasmine picked up a simple beginner’s kit.
“This one?”
I laughed weakly.
“I used to have a better set.”
“Then we’ll start with this and work our way up.”
She paid before I could protest.
At home, I painted a small landscape.
A lake beneath a gray sky.
The colors bled into each other.
The trees leaned strangely.
It wasn’t very good.
But when I finished, I sat staring at it.
I’d made something.
Not because Brandon approved.
Not because it served any practical purpose.
Simply because I wanted to.
I cried.
Jasmine found me a few minutes later.
She looked at the painting.
“Hannah, that’s beautiful.”
I laughed through tears.
“It’s crooked.”
“So are most interesting things.”
I hugged her.
The following week, my attorney called.
Brandon had attempted to portray my departure as an impulsive episode caused by emotional distress.
