THE NIGHT WE CHOSE TO LIVE
ALM No.95, November 2026
SHORT STORIES
I used to think fear was something you could get used to. I was wrong. Fear does not become smaller because you have lived with it for a long time. It becomes familiar. It learns your routines. It learns where you sleep. It learns how you breathe. It learns how to make your heart pound before anything has even happened.
For years, I lived inside that kind of fear.
I could hear him come home before I saw him.
The tires pulling into the driveway.
The car door slamming. The heavy footsteps coming toward the house. And then, sometimes, the sound of a bottle being placed on the kitchen counter.
Clink. That sound. Something so small, something that shouldn't have meant anything, but to me, it meant everything.
My stomach would tighten.
My hands would become cold.
My mind would begin racing.
Please don't let tonight be one of those nights. I would stand in the kitchen pretending to be busy. Washing a dish that was already clean. Wiping a counter that didn't need wiping.
Anything to look occupied. Anything to avoid looking nervous. Because if he saw that I was afraid, sometimes that made things worse. The door would open.
The smell of alcohol would enter the house; And I would feel myself disappear.
“Where are you?”
“In here.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just cleaning.”
“You're always doing something.” I would take a breath. “I was just—”
“Don't.” One word.
And I would stop. I became an expert at stopping.
Stopping my words, stopping my tears, Stopping myself from reacting, stopping myself from asking why. Stopping myself from being the woman I used to be. There were nights when I would lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to him move around the house, and silently bargain with God.
Please.
Please let tonight be quiet.
Please let my children sleep.
Please let this end. Sometimes I would press my hands together so tightly my fingernails dug into my palms. I didn't even realize I was doing it. I just needed somewhere to put the fear. There was nowhere else to put it. And then I would hear my boys. My two boys. Their little voices coming from their bedroom. Their laughter becoming whispers when they realized Daddy was home, that was when the pain became unbearable, Because I could handle being afraid for myself. What I couldn't handle was seeing fear enter my children's eyes.
One night, one of them appeared in the hallway. “Mommy?” I turned around. He was standing there in his pajamas, holding the other boy's hand. “Come here, baby.” He didn't move. “Is Daddy mad?” My throat tightened. “No.” He looked at me. Children know.
They know when you're lying.
Even when you smile.
Even when you tell them everything is fine. “Are you sure?” I nodded. “Yes.” But my voice broke. His eyes dropped to my face. “Mommy, you're crying.” I touched my cheek. I hadn't even realized I was.
I wiped it quickly. “I'm okay.” He came toward me. “Don't cry.” That sentence nearly brought me to my knees. I wrapped my arms around both. I held them so tightly I could feel their little hearts beating against me. And inside my head, I was screaming.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry you can hear this.
I'm sorry you know what fear sounds like.
I'm sorry I haven't gotten us out. But what came out of my mouth was, “Mommy's right here.”
I said it again. “Mommy's right here.” As though those four words could build a wall around them. As though my arms could protect them from everything. As though I could somehow absorb every terrible thing myself.
I wanted to.
I would have.
I would have taken every ounce of fear from their little bodies and carried it myself if I could. But I couldn't. And that knowledge haunted me. The abuse wasn't only in the shouting. It was in what happened afterward.
The silence.
The apologies.
The pretending.
The mornings when everyone acted as though the night before had never happened. I would wake up exhausted, my eyes swollen from crying, and hear, “Good morning.” As if nothing had happened. As if I hadn't spent the night staring into the darkness.
As if my children hadn't heard.
As if my heart hadn't been begging for a way out. I became good at pretending, I could make breakfast while my hands shook, I could smile at my children while something inside me was falling apart, I could answer questions.
I could go through the motions. And then I would go into the bathroom, close the door, sit on the floor, and finally let myself break. Sometimes, I would cover my mouth with my hand because I was afraid someone would hear me crying. I would stare at the floor and whisper, “What happened to me?” I didn't know the woman looking back at me anymore.
Where was the woman who used to laugh?
Where was the woman who had dreams?
Where was the woman who believed, love was supposed to feel safe? I missed her. I mourned her, And the hardest part was that she wasn't dead, she was still somewhere inside me, She was just buried beneath years of fear.
His family knew. That is one of the parts I still struggle to understand.
They knew. They saw. They heard.
And I believed their promises. They had told me they would be there.
They told me they would protect me. They told me they would be like the family I had lost. After losing my own parents, those words meant everything to me. I wanted to believe I had finally found people who would stand beside me. One day, when I couldn't carry the secret anymore, I went to them. My voice was barely a whisper. “I need help.” They looked at me.
I waited. My heart was pounding.
Please.
Please see me.
Please don't make me explain everything.
Please just believe me.
I didn't need a lecture.
I didn't need judgment.
I needed someone to say, “Come with us.” Instead, they looked away. They turned their heads. And someone said, “That’s between you two.” I remember feeling something inside me go completely still. Between us? I wanted to scream.
What about my children?
What about the nights they hide?
What about the tears you can see on my face?
What about the woman standing in front of you who is begging you for help? But I said nothing. I just walked away. When I finally got somewhere private, I slid down against the cold brick wall and sobbed. Not pretty crying, Not the kind of crying you see in movies. I mean the kind where your chest hurts where you can't catch your breath. The kind where you press your fist against your mouth because you don't want your children to hear their mother falling apart making sure to stay somewhat composed. I remember thinking, nobody is ever coming. That thought terrified me more than anything that Nobody was coming, so if we were going to get out, I had to find a way. For a long time, I believed leaving was impossible.
Where would we go?
How would we survive?
What would happen tomorrow?
Would anyone believe me?
Would my children blame me?
Would I be able to protect them?
Would I fail? Those questions kept me trapped. Fear would whisper: Stay.
You know what you have.
You don't know what is outside that door.
But another voice, quieter at first, began answering: Your children deserve better. I didn't know when that voice became stronger. Maybe it happened the night my son asked me why I cried. Maybe it happened when I saw him watching the hallway instead of watching television. Maybe it happened when I realized my children could recognize the sound of a bottle being opened. I think it happened slowly. Until one night, I looked at my boys and something inside me finally broke. Not my spirit. The part of me that kept accepting this as my life.
That night, my children were together in their room playing, I stood in the doorway and watched them. They were quiet.
A little Too quiet. One of them looked up. “Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Are we okay?” I couldn't answer. He asked again. “Are we?” I sat down beside them. I looked at their faces.
My beautiful babies, And suddenly I saw every night through their eyes.
The fear.
The confusion.
The waiting.
The wondering. I reached for them. “I love you.” One of them asked, “Are you leaving?” My heart stopped. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because you look sad.” I closed my eyes. A tear slipped down my face. “I am sad.”
“Why?” I looked at them. “Because you boys deserve to feel safe.” Neither of them spoke. I pulled them into my arms.
And that was it. That was the moment. I knew. we couldn't stay. Not one more night; Not because I suddenly stopped being afraid, Because I finally understood that my children's safety was bigger than my fear. I stood up. My hands were shaking. “What are you doing, Mommy?”
“Getting our things.”
“Why?”
“Because we're going.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe.” I didn't know where that was. But I knew we had to find it. Then his voice came from behind us. “Where do you think you're going?” My entire body went cold. For one second, I couldn't breathe. The old fear came rushing back. My mind screamed,
Don't.
Stop.
Don't make him angry.
Just stay. Then I looked down, my boys were holding my hands. One was trembling, the other was trying so hard to be brave. And something inside me answered my fear. No. I took a deep breath. “We're leaving.” The words shook, but they came out. He said something else but I honestly, I don't remember every word. What I do remember is the sound of my own heartbeat. I remember my hands. I remember my children's faces. I remember thinking, If I don't do it now, I may never do it. I opened the door. Cold air rushed against my face. I stepped outside, then my boys did too. For a moment, none of us moved. We just stood there. Three frightened people in the darkness. I looked back. The house was behind us. Everything we knew was behind us. The fear was behind us. But the future? The future was nothing but a black road. I had no idea what waited there. “Mommy?” I looked down. “Are we safe?” I wanted to say yes. I wanted to give him certainty. But I couldn't lie to him anymore. So, I said, “We're going to be.”
“Are you scared?” My eyes filled with tears. “Yes.” He squeezed my hand. “Me too.” I knelt and pulled both boys against me. Their arms went around my neck. I could feel them trembling even through my own trembling. “We’ll be scared together,” I whispered. Then we started walking.
I cried the entire way.
I cried because I was afraid.
I cried because I was relieved.
I cried because I was angry.
I cried because I had stayed so long.
I cried because I wished someone had helped us sooner.
I cried because I had spent years trying to make a broken situation look whole. And I cried because I finally understood that leaving didn't mean I had failed. It meant we had survived. My boys walked beside me feeling their warm and small hands inside mine. That warmth was the only thing keeping me grounded. One of them looked up. “Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Are we going to have a home?” I couldn't answer immediately. My throat closed. “Yes,” I finally whispered. “A safe home?”
“Yes.” He nodded. And somehow, that simple question broke my heart more than anything else. Because children shouldn't have to ask whether their future home will be safe. They should assume it will be, I wiped my tears. “We're going to build one.”
“With what?” I smiled through the tears. “With whatever we have.” And maybe that was the first time I understood that home wasn't the walls we had left behind.
Home was us.
Three people holding onto one another.
Three people choosing to keep going.
Three people who were scared but still walking. I don't know exactly when the fear stopped controlling me.
Maybe it never completely did.
Maybe healing isn't waking up one morning and realizing you're no longer afraid.
Maybe healing is learning that fear can walk beside you without deciding where you go. That night, I was terrified, But I kept walking, my boys kept walking. And every step felt like we were taking a piece of ourselves back.
The woman I thought I had lost was still inside me.
I could feel her.
She was tired.
She was bruised by words.
She was exhausted from surviving.
But she was alive.
And she was walking away I looked at my children and whispered, “I'm sorry it took me so long.” One of them squeezed my hand. “You got us out.” I stopped. Those words hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. I pulled him close. And I cried into his hair, not because I was broken. Because I was grateful. We had made it to the other side of that door. We didn't know what tomorrow would bring. But tomorrow was no longer something I dreaded. Tomorrow was something we were going to meet head on together. The road ahead was dark. But for the first time, I could see the possibility of light. And as my two boys walked beside me, I realized something I would carry with me for the rest of my life; I had spent years believing I needed someone else to save me. But when no one came, I found the strength to save my children and myself.
We weren't just escaping a house. We were escaping a life built around fear. And somewhere in the darkness, between my tears and my children's trembling hands, I finally heard the voice I had been missing for years.
My own. It whispered: Keep going.
So, I did.
One step.
One breath, One tear at a time. That was the night we chose to live.
Bri Parker is an aspiring author with a passion for dark fantasy, gothic storytelling, and emotionally powerful characters. Inspired by personal experiences, love, loss, and healing, Bri writes stories that explore the beauty hidden within darkness. As a devoted spouse and parent, Bri draws strength from family while pursuing the dream of becoming a published author. Through every story, Bri hopes to remind readers that even in the darkest moments, there is still hope, strength, and magic waiting to be found.
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