My Husband Could Never Find Out

He hadn’t come home last night. I was thankful for that.

I’d set my alarm an hour early, showered, styled my hair, and applied makeup while trying to stay calm. I then woke my eight-month-old daughter and fed and clothed her.

Five minutes before we needed to leave, I nervously glanced out of the window to check his car was not in the driveway. It wasn’t.

Returning to the bedroom, I reached under the bed. I pushed the box of shoes to the right, the box of purses to the left, and pulled the two neat bags from under a blanket. I slid the smaller bag into the diaper bag and I carried the second, a professional-looking tote to the kitchen. After buckling my daughter into her car seat, I peeked out the window once more — still nothing.

Locking the door behind me, I walked down the path to the driveway, holding my breath, and hearing my heart thudding in my ears.

Reaching the car, I quickly placed the diaper bag inside and edged the tote bag underneath the passenger seat. Then I opened the back door to click my daughter’s car seat into its base. Just as I heard the click, the sound of a car engine blared.

Oh great, Vin Diesel is back.

I closed my eyes, felt the color drain from my face, and turned around. My husband pulled up as I closed the car’s back door. It made me feel better to know our daughter was behind a sheet of steel.

“Where are you going?” My husband asked as he stepped out of his newly dented car. I stiffened. My eyes traveled over the dent.

“I’m meeting Deb. We’re going to the park,” I said, making sure to keep my voice steady but feeling my forehead crease.

“Which park?” He asked.

I recited the name and location of a park I had researched a week ago. He held my gaze for a second. I felt my palms begin to sweat at the thought of him seeing the contents of the bag under my passenger seat. If he found out where I was going, he would be furious. He had to be in control and became aggressive if that control was threatened.

“Alright,” he said and returned to his car.

“See you later,” I called as I jumped in my car, waiting until I had closed the door to let out a sigh of relief.

Backing down the driveway and gripping tightly onto the steering wheel, I glanced up to see him enter the house with two bottles of Jack Daniels.

What else could he do on a Wednesday morning?

Ten minutes later, I pulled into the abandoned parking lot of a store that had closed down. I used to pass it every day on my drive to work.

Looking in the mirror, I saw my daughter giggling at a fabric book as I reached into the diaper bag and pulled out the small bag. Inside was a pair of black heels and a blue, zip-up dress. Carefully unfolding it, I pulled off my baseball tee and leggings and slid into the dress, fighting with the zip. Then I swapped my sneakers for the heels.

Dressing professionally would instill respect and encourage people to listen to me. I needed to be listened to. I needed help. Without it, I was out of options.

I drove for another five minutes until I arrived at the large multi-level parking lot. After finding a space, I jumped out of the car as worry fought to take over. Grabbing my daughter, the bags, and the stroller, I headed for the tall, glass building.

And got lost. A lot.

“We’ll call you when she is ready,” the receptionist said to me with a forced smile.

I took a seat in the large reception area, pulling the stroller close. My daughter stared in awe at the stiletto heels that clinked against the polished floor as people in suits sauntered back and forth.

I fanned through the papers in my tote bag, making sure I had all of my documents while trying to stop my foot from tapping on the floor. Nausea swept over me, with a headache settling in. I bit my lip. If she couldn’t help me, I didn’t know what I would do.

“Claire?” A woman approached me.

I stood and shook her hand, then followed her pushing the stroller past offices with heavy wooden doors and shiny gold nameplates.

We entered a small office where the woman looked over my documents, marriage and birth certificates, passports, and visas. Then asked me for payment. Opening the zipped compartment of my purse, I withdrew the credit card and handed it over.

The credit card was in my name only. I had been worried about using the wrong card and had put it in a separate part of my purse days ago. If I had used a card from a shared account, he might have seen the charge to the law firm.

Several minutes later, the woman led me to the attorney’s office, knocked on the mahogany door, and ushered me inside.

Bookcases lined the far wall with books that looked untouched. Plaques and framed diplomas covered the wall closest to me. In the middle, stood a grand, polished desk with leather chairs placed in front of it. The attorney, Ms Catherine Ward sat behind it tapping on her laptop.

She had been recommended to me by Jonothan, my previous attorney. Neither he nor the attorney before him had been able to help. Jonathan used his connections to get me an appointment with Attorney Ward, the most experienced international family attorney in the city.

Luckily, I had hidden some money from my husband, who had spent almost everything we had and was able to afford the hefty sum to meet with her.

I didn’t want a vacation for another ten years anyway.

She stood and greeted me warmly, offering me a seat and smiling at my daughter. I was surprised. I expected her personality to match the harshness and superiority of the building.

Forty minutes later, I exited the office. My body let go of the tension holding it together. I pushed the stroller back past the expensive fixtures and furnishings, trying to contain my smile.

Because it was going to be toothy and weird.

Once the elevator doors closed, I lay my head against the elevator wall, closed my eyes, and let out a deep breath. When I opened my eyes, my daughter looked at me curiously and I grinned at her, knowing that we finally had hope.

Attorney Ward had fully explained plans A and B for how I could legally take my daughter back to safety in my home country, the UK. For the first time, I felt confident that I could get away and the relief waved over me, watering my eyes.

Once back in the car, my daughter drifted off to sleep, and I drove back to the abandoned parking lot where I changed my clothes. Quickly, I slipped the dress and heels into the diaper bag as my nervous energy returned. Then, I headed home listing all the possible hiding spots for the tote bag. I couldn’t risk leaving it in the car.

I pulled into the driveway. Twisting the wedding ring on my finger, I stepped out and collected the bags and car seat with my sleeping daughter inside. Struggling up the steps to the front door, I paused at the top. I took a deep breath and twisted the door knob. At first, I stood still, listening. After hearing nothing, I stepped inside.

The kitchen was empty. I placed the car seat and diaper bag on the floor, then slipped the tote bag into the coat closet under a gym bag. I tiptoed down the hallway and heard snoring. Our bedroom door was ajar. I peeked through the crack to see my husband asleep on the bed, a bottle of Jack next to him that had spilled onto the sheets.

Wonderful.

I tiptoed back down the hallway, grabbed the tote bag, and snuck into the nursery. I slid it into the nursery closet underneath a box of diapers.

That evening, when my husband went out, I unpacked the bags and placed the dress, shoes, and paperwork in their original places.

Two months later, I had executed plan A and found myself standing in the middle of an airport with my daughter, legal documents approving her move to the UK, and as many of our possessions as I could pack. The mixture of relief and uncertainty of what was to come was overwhelming.

Holding back tears as I struggled with a baby, a stroller, a carry-on bag, a diaper bag, and three large suitcases, I tried to bring myself comfort from watching happy families excitedly discuss their upcoming vacations. I promised myself that the next time my daughter and I were in an airport, we would be just like them.