Page 2 of Finders Keepers

The front door bursts open. I know right away he’s been drinking—he reeks of whiskey. His eyes land on Sophie’s blocks scattered across the floor, and his face twists into that familiar mask of rage.

“What the hell is this mess?” he bellows. Sophie scrambles up and runs toward me, hiding behind my legs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice already trembling. “We’re cleaning up. She was just playing—”

“Playing? This place looks like a damn pigsty!” He kicks one of the blocks, sending it skittering across the hardwood floor. “You’re a piece of shit human being, you know that? Can’t even keep a fucking house clean.”

“Matt, please,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady for Sophie’s sake. “You’re drunk. Let me get you some water—”

“Don’t tell me what I am, you fucking bitch!” He stalks closer, jabbing his finger at me. “You’re a terrible mother, you know that? Living in filth, letting her run wild—”

“That’s not true,” I argue.

The words slip out before I can stop them, and as soon as they do, I deflate. I know better than to talk back. It’s always worse when I do—but they come out anyway.

The crack of his fist across my face echoes through the room. I stumble back, slamming against the kitchen counter. Sophie starts crying, and through my daze, I hear her tiny footsteps pounding up the stairs.

That’s the moment. Lying there on the cold tile, tasting blood in my mouth, listening to my daughter cry—that’s when I know we have to leave. Every other time, I’ve made excuses. Told myself it would get better. Told myself he loved me. Told myself Sophie needed her father. I wore long sleeve shirts and covered the bruises with makeup, but in this moment, I finally understand: what Sophie needs is to never see her mother be hit again.

A sob catches in my throat, bringing me back to the present. I grip the edges of the bathroom sink, forcing myself to take deep breaths. The tightness grips my chest again, but I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing until the sensation starts to fade.

When I open my eyes, I see a different woman in the mirror than the one who stared back at me a few days ago. That woman was afraid to leave, afraid to stay, afraid of everything. This woman, this version of me, is scared too, but there’s something else in her eyes. Determination. Hope.

I hear Sophie stir in the other room and quickly dry my face with the thin white washcloth provided by the motel. When I come out of the bathroom, she’s sitting up in bed, clutching Mr. Hoppy.

“Mommy?” Her voice is small and uncertain.

“I’m here, baby.” I climb back into bed and pull her close. “Just needed some water.”

She snuggles into my side. “I had a bad dream.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

She shakes her head, burying her face in my shirt. I stroke her hair and start humming her favorite lullaby, the one my mother used to sing to me when I was a little girl. Now, her and my dad are looking down on us ever since their car accident four years ago. They passed away when I was pregnant with Sophie, and I know that they both would have loved her so fiercely but never got the chance. Silent tears run down my cheeks as I continue the song and after a while, her breathing evens out again.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and reach for the remote to turn off the TV, plunging the room into darkness. Tomorrow we’ll drive further south, try to find a new town, start building our new life. But for now, I hold my daughter close and listen to the distant sound of trucks on the highway, carrying other people to their own destinations.

For the first time since we left, something stirs within me, hope… maybe? It’s a fragile feeling. One I’m desperately trying to hold onto. I glance down at Sophie’s peaceful face, her blonde waves splayed across the pillow, and I know with every fiber in my being that we’re going to be okay. We have to be. Whatever comes tomorrow or the next day, we’ll face it together. Just the two of us against the world. It’s not the family I imagined for her, but it’s ours, and somehow we’ll make it be enough.

The morning sun streams through the front windshield as I guide our beat-up Honda down another unfamiliar backroad. My eyes dart between the rearview mirror and the empty road ahead.

“Just keep moving,” I whisper to myself, taking another turn onto a gravel road.

Sophie’s been quiet in her car seat, clutching Mr. Hoppy and watching the scenery change from highway to farmland. My face continues to throb where Matt hit me, and I know without looking that the bruise has darkened overnight.

My mind starts racing through the possibilities. Would Matt report the car stolen? The thought sends ice through my veins. But then I remember the empty bottles scattered across the coffee table when we left, how he was passed out cold on the couch. He probably hasn’t had the time to sober up let alone realize we’re gone. Matt’s not exactly a mastermind, but if he does call the police…

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Sophie says softly from the backseat.

“Me too, baby girl. Let’s find somewhere to eat, okay?”

And as if on cue, a sign appears: “Welcome to Pine Grove—Population 1,147.” Below it, there’s a smaller sign advertising a gas station and “Lucy’s Diner—Best Breakfast in Town!” My stomach growls, making its own contribution to the decision.

The diner sits on the corner of what appears to be the town’s main street, its chrome exterior gleaming in the morning light. I pull into a parking space out front and put my car in park and make my way around to Sophies door, she’s already unbuckled herself and jumps out still clutching the stuffed rabbit. Shutting her door, I catch my reflection in the car’s window and quickly pull my hair forward, trying to cover the worst of the bruising.

“Can I have pancakes?” She asks.

“We’ll see what they have, sweetie.” I take her small hand in mine, and together we walk into the diner.

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