I was busy.
With the center opening, I took a role as community coordinator. I spoke to women in similar situations. Helped with paperwork. Listened to stories that sounded far too much like mine.
At night, I’d sit with Eleanor, drinking tea, sometimes in silence.
“You know,” she said one evening, “when I saw you on that porch, I realized something.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You looked like me. Forty years ago.”
I turned to her.
“My first husband locked me out during a blizzard. I was barefoot. Pregnant. And humiliated.”
I stared.
“I swore no woman in this family would go through it again,” she said. “And when I saw you there, I knew it was time to use my power for something better.”
I placed my hand over hers.
That night, I slept deeply for the first time in years.
Not in fear.
Not in someone else’s house.
