The day...

I remember the day I decided to leave him. It was summer, a warm day, with a gentle breeze. I sat on the porch for about an hour, holding my little girl, so small and peaceful, watching the neighbors mow their grass and play catch. The mood was relaxed and it seemed that heaven was all around.

I heard the noise coming from inside the house and I tried to ignore it. How could such a perfect day be interrupted by such foolishness? He was home and he wasn’t alone. There were voices I recognized and some that I didn’t. I hoped they would leave before I went inside. They didn’t.

They were there, on my couch, in my kitchen, laughing and yelling and cursing. I greeted them, as politely as I could, and tried not to see what they were doing with the items they pulled from their pockets. Tried not to smell what was lingering in the air. Tried not to know what I knew too well.

I walked downstairs, to keep my baby from the madness. He followed me; he was high, again. He wanted to know why I never stayed with him; why I always wanted to be alone, why I always took our daughter away. We argued, the same words as the day before, the day before, the day before. I looked into his eyes and I saw my daughter. I saw the life that she would lead if I stayed. I felt the fear of life if I left.

I broke free from his gaze and told him I was leaving. He was too high to care; he didn’t put up a fight. As I walked out of the house, with a bag of clothing and diapers, a breeze fell across my face. It was the most gentle breeze, as if someone’s soft fingers had swept across my cheek, wiping away my tears.

That was the day I said goodbye to the one I knew, to surrender to the One who knew me.