Twenty-eight years ago today, I had neither. I did have two toddlers. My marriage had just fallen apart due to my first husband's severe depression and alcohol abuse. After a night of terror, the girls and I moved into a women's shelter.
The shelter had just lost its supervisor, so we were alone in the creaky, drafty Victorian house. The three of us rattled around in it. With one baby on my hip and the other clinging to my leg, I read the notes taped to walls, bulletin boards, and cabinets. We found diapers, bedding and food. I made apple pancakes using government surplus canned goods.
We went outside in the chilly afternoon sun to rake leaves. I watched the girls toss them with joy, their giggles filling the backyard. Staying in the big white house was an adventure. As night washed over us, I bathed my babies in the oversized claw-foot bathtub, dried them off, and tucked them in for the night.
The shock of those weeks has worn off -- mostly. There are some movies that can instantly zip me back into those stupefying feelings of loss and abandonment and fear and failure.
This morning, those memories are remnants of a nightmare. I force myself to uncurl my body, beg my adrenalin-flooded brain to drain, and shake the flashbacks from my head.
Instead, I look around this peaceful home that Dale and I have created, feel the sun on my face, know that we are safe. I hold my husband's gaze, hear his reassuring words, and feel the benediction of his kisses on my forehead.
We are safe.
We are safe.
We are safe.
And for that I am truly grateful.
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