I wasn’t home. I didn’t see the terrified look on her face, with a hint of relief when she thought she had reached her safe place. I didn’t see the return of fear when she learned our home was not the safe place she was searching for.

I imagine her face. I see her story-filled eyes; stories that shouldn’t be true. I watch her checking over her shoulder to ensure she is alone. My heart is racing for her nightmare to end. It drops when she understands she hasn’t found what she is seeking.

It was eleven years ago. It was in a neighborhood where no one hopes to live. She escaped her husband. Her whole being screamed of abuse. She was brave. She ran. She was filled with faith and trust in the human spirit despite what she’d been through. She shared her story with my roommate. He gave her his time and hope.

I wasn’t home.
I never saw her.
I continue to pray for her.


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