At first, I thought it was him—Austin, a kind, quiet widower devoted to raising his daughter Willow. I met him at a housewarming party. There was sadness in his eyes as if he was going through something, but there was also tenderness and concern.
“Two years ago, my husband died in a car accident. It's just me and my son now,” he said while holding a glass of wine.
During our six-month relationship, he introduced me to Willow—a quiet 14-year-old girl. She was always easy to talk to but always seemed to have something to hide. She didn't stay in the living room long, always seemed uncomfortable.
One Saturday morning after Austin's birthday, while I was having coffee, I heard something faintly from the living room:
“Sorry, Mom. You know it was his birthday yesterday. I couldn't go. I'll just call you later.”
I stopped. Mom?
When I approached Willow, she tried to deny it. “Ah, she’s just my friend. It was just a joke that we called her ‘Mom’.”
But when he saw on my face that I didn't believe him, he whispered, "Let's talk in the basement."
In the cold and quiet basement, he told the truth.
“My mother is still alive.”
My world felt like it was spinning. “But did I think...?”
“He made everyone believe that Mama was dead. But the truth is, she ran away from Daddy.”
Willow recounts how Austin became controlling—that he tried to control even Mama even after they were done. So when there was an accident and his mother's body wasn't found, he just hid and built a new life.
“I see her every week,” Willow said. “But if Daddy finds out, he might ruin her life again.”
That's when I realized—maybe I wasn't the first one he restricted. The sweet texts, the sudden anger when I didn't get an answer right away, and the questions whenever I went out alone—I thought it was love. But maybe it was control.
So I tried to say: “I need some space.”
He nodded, but I saw the sudden coldness in his eyes. The next day, the texting continued. Then I saw him outside the office—with flowers, a forced smile, and eyes that sparkled with certainty.
But when I saw him again outside my apartment, he no longer had the flowers—but his presence was there, heavy, like a threat.
“Austin, this is not right. You need to go.”
After that, I called my friend Mark, a police officer. He went with me until I saw Austin again outside the office. There he confronted him.
“Stop this. If you continue, there will be legal consequences.”
Austin left, but the look he gave me—sharp, filled with anger—was like a brand in my mind.
I temporarily moved into my friend's house. In the silence of the night, I thought about Willow and her mom—two women trying to get back to life.
And now, it's me who has to start over. Not just to escape the past—but to regain my own peace.
