Chapter 8 - The New Home That Held Our New Beginnings
A year after the sentencing, Lisa sat Sophie and me down at the kitchen table, her hands folded in front of her. “I have something to tell you,” she said, grinning. “I got a job offer in Maine. It’s a great position, and I’m going to take it.” My heart sank. Lisa had been our rock, our safe place. I didn’t know what we’d do without her. But before I could say anything, she added, “But I don’t want you two to stay here alone. I want you to come with me. I found a house—big enough for all of us, with a huge backyard, near the ocean. We can be a family. What do you say?”
I looked at Sophie, whose eyes were wide. “Can we go to the beach every day?” she asked, and Lisa laughed. “Every day, if you want.”
I thought about it. Our life here was good—we had friends, we had routines, we had the bookstore and the pottery class and the support group. But it was also full of memories, of the old house, of Mark, of the trial. A fresh start, somewhere new, where no one knew our story, where we could just be us—it sounded perfect.
We moved to Maine that summer. The house was a small, blue cottage with a wraparound porch, just a ten-minute walk from the beach. The air smelled like salt and pine, and the sun set over the ocean every night, painting the sky pink and orange. Sophie was thrilled—she spent every morning building sandcastles, collecting seashells, chasing seagulls.
I got a job at a local independent bookstore, just like the one I’d worked at before, and I started a storytime there too. The kids loved it, and Sophie would help me pick out the books, passing out cookies to the other kids after we read. I joined a local pottery co-op, and I started making mugs and bowls, selling them at a craft fair on the weekends.
Lisa met a woman named Emma, a marine biologist who loved to hike and cook, and they started dating. Emma was kind, and she loved Sophie like she was her own. She taught Sophie how to identify different types of seashells, how to skip stones, how to make s’mores over a campfire.
For the first time in years, our life felt normal. It felt like home.
Sophie turned six that fall, and we had a birthday party on the beach, with her new friends from school, a unicorn cake, and a piñata full of candy. She ran around laughing, her hair full of sand, and I watched her, my heart full. This was the childhood she deserved—happy, carefree, safe.
That night, after the party, Sophie climbed into bed with me, Floof tucked under her arm. “Mommy?” she said, her voice sleepy.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Do you ever miss Daddy?”
I paused, thinking about how to answer. “No, baby. I don’t miss him. He hurt us, and I’m glad he’s not here. But I do miss the man I thought he was, before I knew the truth. But that man wasn’t real. The real Daddy was the one who hurt you, and I don’t miss him at all.”
Sophie nodded, snuggling into me. “I don’t miss him either. I like our new family. You, me, Aunt Lisa, Emma. It’s better.”
I kissed the top of her head. “It is better, baby. It’s so much better.”
A few months later, I got an email from a producer at a daytime talk show, asking if I’d be willing to come on and share my story. They wanted to do a segment about recognizing the signs of child abuse, about trusting your instincts as a parent. I hesitated, but Sophie said, “You should go, Mommy. You can help other kids like me.”
I went on the show, keeping Sophie’s name and face private, and I told our story. I talked about the signs I’d missed, about how abusers hide in plain sight, about how important it is to listen to children. After the show aired, I got hundreds more emails, from parents, from survivors, from people who said my story had opened their eyes.
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I started a small nonprofit, called Listen To Kids, to provide resources and support to parents who suspect their children are being abused, and to help survivors heal. We raised money for therapy for kids, for legal support for parents, for educational programs in schools to teach kids about body safety and secrets.
It was hard work, and some days were exhausting, but it was also the most meaningful thing I’d ever done. Mark had tried to destroy my life, but instead, he’d given me a purpose.
