Chapter 2 - CyclingPreston learned where I was twenty-four hours later, but not from me. My obstetrician's office called to ask why I hadn't delivered at Riverside Methodist. When Preston answered the home phone, he learned only that I'd given birth somewhere else.
That was enough to send him into a rage. My phone filled with messages.
Where are you? You cannot keep my child from me. You are insane.
Then, twenty minutes later: Come home. We can talk.
Genevieve read them while I fed Sadie in the hospital bed. "He's cycling," she said.
"I know."
That frightened me more than the insults. Preston had always been skilled at changing masks. First anger. Then charm. Then blame. Then an apology vague enough to sound generous without admitting anything.
That afternoon, a social worker named Marisol came into my room. I hadn't requested her, but one of the nurses had noticed how tense I became whenever my phone lit up.
Marisol sat beside the window. "Do you feel safe returning home?"
"No."
It was the first time I'd answered that question honestly. I told her Preston had never hit me. For years, I'd almost used that fact to excuse everything else. Then I described the passwords he kept from me, the credit card he canceled after I bought a winter coat without permission, the time he took my car keys because I stayed too long at lunch with coworkers, and the way he threatened to seek full custody whenever I disagreed with him.
Marisol didn't look shocked. "Control does not have to leave bruises," she said.
That evening, Genevieve drove Sadie and me to her townhouse outside Pittsburgh. I slept in the guest room with the bassinet beside the bed.
At 6:12 the next morning, someone pounded on the front door.
Genevieve looked through the peephole. "It's him."
My whole body went cold. Preston had driven nearly three hours. He shouted through the door. "Naomi! Open up! You've made your point."
Sadie started crying. Preston heard her. His voice changed immediately. "Naomi, please. That's my daughter."
Genevieve called the police while I stood in the hallway holding Sadie against my chest. When officers arrived, Preston became polite. He said there had been a misunderstanding between husband and wife. He said I was exhausted, hormonal, confused after childbirth.
Then he made his first serious mistake. He told the officers I'd stolen money from our joint account.
I hadn't taken a cent. But his accusation reminded me of something. Months earlier, while searching for a tax document, I'd photographed several bank statements after noticing transfers I didn't recognize. Preston had been moving money from our joint savings into an account held only in his name.
More than forty thousand dollars.
That afternoon, while Preston drove back to Ohio believing he'd frightened me, I emailed those photographs to a family-law attorney. Her name was Vivienne Cho. She called within an hour.
May you like
"Naomi," she said, "do not go back to that house, and do not delete anything he sends you."
For the first time since Sadie's birth, I felt something stronger than fear. Prepared.
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