It was 2:14 a.m., the house silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator, when I noticed movement outside my window.
There was my neighbor, Mrs. Clara Bennett, seventy years old, wiry and determined, perched on her garden fence. With a tense swing, she landed in my yard. My heart raced. Clara, normally gentle and quiet, was sneaking out like a fugitive.
I slipped into my robe and called softly, “Mrs. Bennett?”
She turned, eyes wide with fear. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t make noise. He’ll hear.”
“Who?” I asked.
“My son,” she said. “If he wakes up and sees I’m gone…” Her terror filled in the rest.
Inside, she revealed a life none of us would suspect: her son, controlling and abusive, monitored her every move. The locks, the phone, even her bank card—nothing escaped his grip. She tried to leave once, but he caught her before she reached the bus stop. Now, she waited until he drank himself to sleep, sneaking out under the cover of night just to breathe freely.
Clara’s words stunned me. A seventy-year-old woman, escaping her own home to avoid a son who twisted love into control. When a knock rattled my back door, panic gripped both of us. The voice of her son boomed through the night, demanding she return. Footsteps retreated, leaving her slumped in fear.
As dawn approached, she prepared to climb the fence back to her prison. Her words lingered: “I survived worse. I’ll survive this too. At least until… until I can’t anymore.”
