I walked over and kissed the top of his head.

I wanted to tell him that opening the door had been the easy part.

The hard part had been finding the courage to close another one — the door to a marriage built on fear, and deception, and silence.

For years I had believed that protecting my family meant preventing arguments and keeping everyone under one roof.

I had been wrong. Protection meant standing between my child and the person hurting him. It meant believing the truth even when the truth destroyed the life I thought I had. Most of all, it meant choosing my son, after too many years of choosing silence.

Outside, the sun rose slowly over our small apartment. Inside, the morning finally belonged to us.

THE END.