Broken Hearts...

thirteen

The next morning, Harry woke to the sound of Emma stirring in her crib. His body still ached from the night before, a dull throb radiating from his cheek where April had struck him.

But he pushed the pain aside as he rose from the bed, moving quietly to soothe his daughter before she could wake April. Every movement felt like a tightrope walk, each noise a potential trigger.April was still asleep, her snores muffled behind the bedroom door.

The alcohol had knocked her out cold, granting Harry and Emma a temporary reprieve. He had learned over time to make the most of these moments of peace—precious, fleeting opportunities where he could think, plan, and breathe without the constant fear of April's volatile temper.

As he changed Emma's diaper, Harry's mind churned with possibilities. Last night's attempt to call the safe house had been thwarted, but the window hadn't closed completely. It was a setback, not the end. He repeated the words in his mind like a mantra: "For Emma. For Emma." She was his anchor, the reason he could keep fighting through the fear and exhaustion. He had to stay strong for her.

After breakfast, Harry busied himself with chores, keeping his movements deliberate and quiet. The phone number in his pocket felt like a lifeline, though the weight of it also reminded him of the dangers lurking behind each step. He couldn't afford to make a mistake, not when April could turn from calm to fury in an instant.

As the morning dragged on, April eventually stirred, her footsteps heavy on the floorboards. Harry tensed, bracing himself. He couldn't predict which version of her would emerge—groggy and dismissive, or sharp and accusatory. She shuffled into the kitchen, her eyes bloodshot and her face creased from a restless sleep.

"Coffee," she mumbled, not even looking in Harry's direction. He kept his head down, already in motion to prepare her mug. He'd learned that silence was often his best defense. If she was in this state, it was better not to draw attention to himself or Emma.

April slumped at the kitchen table, rubbing her temples. The tension in the room was thick, but it remained unspoken. Harry moved around her carefully, his eyes always flicking back to Emma, who was happily playing on the living room floor, blissfully unaware of the storm cloud looming over them.

As the morning passed into afternoon, Harry's nerves began to fray. The fear of another confrontation gnawed at him, and the longer April lingered, the more likely something would set her off. But to his surprise, she remained in a sort of dazed silence, nursing her hangover and glaring occasionally at her phone, which buzzed with messages she didn't bother to check.

By mid-afternoon, Harry noticed that April's mood was teetering on the edge again. She started snapping at small things—the way the dishes were stacked, how Emma fussed for a bottle. Harry kept his responses to a minimum, hoping to diffuse her anger before it erupted.Finally, around 3 p.m., April got up, her movements sharper than before. She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her keys.

"I'm going out," she muttered, not even bothering to look at him.

Relief washed over Harry as the door slammed behind her, though he knew it was only a brief respite. She'd be back, but for now, he had time. His heart raced as he made his way to the phone. The number felt like fire in his hands as he dialed it, praying no one would answer too soon or too late. The line rang once, then twice, before a calm voice picked up on the other end.

"Safe House Network. How can I help you?"

Harry swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat. He hadn't realized how much the act of speaking would terrify him. What if April found out? What if this was a trap? But then his eyes landed on Emma, sitting on the floor with her toys, and the fear melted into determination.

"I—I need help," Harry whispered, his voice trembling. "My name is Harry, and I... I need to get out. With my daughter."

The voice on the other end softened. "We're here to help, Harry. Take a deep breath. Can you tell me where you are? We'll send someone to guide you to safety."

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he gave their address, his fingers clutching the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. The plan was now in motion, and there was no turning back."We'll have someone there tonight," the voice assured him. "Pack only what you need. We'll handle the rest."

Harry nodded, though they couldn't see him, his mind racing with what to do next. He would have to move quickly. There was no telling how much time they had before April returned, and every second felt like it could be their last chance.

As he hung up the phone, a mixture of fear and exhilaration coursed through him. This was it—the beginning of their escape. He quickly moved to pack a small bag for Emma, grabbing essentials like diapers, clothes, and a few of her favorite toys.

His own bag was sparse—just a change of clothes, his wallet, and the precious phone number he now didn't need. Everything else could be replaced. The only thing that mattered was getting out.

As he finished packing, Harry glanced at the clock. Hours still stretched ahead before the person from the safe house would arrive. He had to keep calm, had to stay ready, but the anxiety gnawed at him. April could come home at any moment, and if she suspected anything, their chance at freedom would vanish.

Time crawled painfully slow, each minute ticking by like a countdown to disaster.Then, just as the sun began to set, the sound of footsteps echoed from the front porch. Harry's heart leapt into his throat. Was it the safe house, or was April back early?Holding Emma tightly, he moved to the window, peering through the curtain.

There, standing at the gate, was a woman in a dark jacket, her face calm but alert. She glanced at the door, then at Harry's anxious face behind the glass, and gave a small nod.

It was time.

Harry's hands trembled as he reached for the door, knowing that with this single act, his life—and Emma's—would change forever.