Page 68 of Triplet Babies
Tears scald my eyes. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the risk is too high.”
“Or maybe you’re letting fear make decisions that love should be making.”
Her words hit home, but they don’t diminish the terror clawing at my chest. Running might not solve anything, but the urge to pack my bags and disappear feels overwhelming. “I can’t think straight. Everything feels like it’s closing in. This feels like life-or-death, like it did that last time Alex put me in the hospital for two days, and we started planning our escape…”
Her tone is soothing again. “Then come home. We’ll figure out what to do, but don’t make any permanent decisions while you’re panicking.”
“I…okay, I’ll try.” I end the call and sit in the dusty guesthouse, staring at my hands. They’re shaking again, the way they used to shake constantly in the weeks after I left Alex. I thought I was past this and stronger now, but apparently, the old fears run deeper than I realized.
The silence in the guesthouse feels oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of gardeners working on the far side of the estate. I try to focus on my breathing, counting in for four and out for six like a domestic abuse hotline employee taught me a couple of years ago, but the panic keeps creeping back in waves.
I pull out the ultrasound folder and stare at the images again, seeing three tiny forms that will be completely dependent on the choices I make. The thought should ground me in purpose, but it amplifies every fear I have about my ability to protect them.
What kind of mother panics at the first sign of trouble? What kind of mother considers running instead of fighting for herchildren’s future? Alex used to tell me I was weak, that I couldn’t handle pressure, and I needed him to make the important decisions. I fought so hard to prove him wrong, but here I am, falling apart at the first real test.
I close the folder and lean back in the chair, letting my head fall against the worn fabric. The guesthouse smells like old wood and dust, with an underlying scent of roses from the garden outside. It’s peaceful here, being isolated from the main house and giving the illusion it’s separate from all its complications. I let myself briefly imagine what it would be like to just stay here, hidden away from Katya and Alex and all the dangers that seem to be circling closer.
But hiding isn’t living, and my children deserve more than a mother who cowers or goes to ground when things get difficult.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a call from an unknown number. I stare at the screen, my pulse jumping. Unknown numbers always make me nervous, being a leftover paranoia from the early months after I left Alex. He used to call from different phones, leaving voicemails that started sweet and ended threatening.
I let it go to voicemail, then immediately check the message. “You have one new voicemail,” the automated voice announces.
I listen to dead air for several seconds, then a man’s voice, distorted and barely audible. “I know where you are now.”
The phone slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor. That voice... It could be anyone, could be a wrong number or a prank call, but every instinct I have screams it’s Alex. I scramble to pick up the phone and delete the message, as if erasing it could somehow undo the threat, but decide not to atthe last moment. I might need it for evidence or something. I try to rationalize and react calmly, but the damage is done. The fear that’s been building all day crystallizes into cold certainty.
He’s here. He’s found me.
I need to leave the guesthouse and get back to the main estate where there are people and security cameras. I grab my bag and rush for the door but stop with my hand on the handle. What if he’s watching? What if leaving the safety of these walls puts me directly in his path?
The rational part of my brain knows I’m spiraling, and one creepy voicemail doesn’t necessarily mean Alex has found me, but the terrified part of my brain, the part that remembers his hands around my throat and his promises that I’d never be free of him, is in full control now. I sink back into the chair and dial Yarik’s number with shaking fingers. It goes straight to voicemail, which means he’s still in his meeting. I try twice more with the same result.
The walls of the guesthouse feel like they’re closing in. I need to move to get somewhere safe, but my legs feel like water and my breath comes in short gasps. This is what Alex did to me. This is the lasting damage he left behind, this bone-deep terror that strips away all rational thought and leaves only the primitive need to run and hide.
I won’t let him win. I won’t let him turn me back into the frightened woman I was when I first arrived in Greenwich.
The ultrasound folder sits in my bag like a ticking bomb, reminding me of the three babies who deserve better than a mother who runs when things get complicated. They also deserve a father who chooses them freely, not because he’strapped by circumstance, but I might have to reveal their existence to keep them safe and never know how he truly feels about me or them.
I force myself to stand on unsteady legs and take deep breaths until my heart rate slows to something resembling normal. The panic attack leaves me drained but clearheaded enough to know I can’t stay here. I need to get home to Nina, the safety of familiar walls, and someone who understands my history.
The drive back to the apartment passes in a blur. Red light, green light, turn signal, and check mirrors. I undertake small, manageable actions that keep my mind from spiraling back into terror.
Nina takes one look at me when I walk through the door and immediately guides me to the couch, wrapping a soft blanket around my shoulders without asking questions. She brings me tea with extra honey to help counter some of the shock and aftereffects of the attack, and sits beside me, her presence steady and calming.
“Better?” she asks after I’ve had several sips of the warm liquid.
“A little.” My voice sounds hoarse, like I’ve been screaming, though I don’t remember making any sound during the panic attack. “After we talked, I got a voicemail from an unknown number.” I play the message for her, watching her expression grow serious as the distorted voice delivers its threat.
“That could be anyone,” she says carefully, but I hear the worry she’s trying to hide.
“Could be. Probably isn’t.” Terse replies are about all I can manage for the moment.
We sit in silence for several minutes, both of us processing what this might mean. If Alex really has found me, if he’s here in Greenwich, the safety I’ve built here and the tentative hope I’ve allowed myself to feel about a future with Yarik becomes fragile and threatened.
“What do you want to do?” she asks gently. “I’m in, no matter what.”
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, staring at the ultrasound folder I’ve placed on the coffee table. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know anymore.”
