Free No River Too Wide by Emilie Richards Page A

and don’t sell us short. We can make this safe for everybody and help you get a new start.”
    “It’s asking too much.”
    Taylor looked at Harmony, whose eyes were welling with tears. Then she looked back at Jan, whose eyes were beginning to brim, too.
    She settled Lottie on her hip, and lightly rested her free hand on Jan’s shoulder and squeezed. “I owe your daughter so much, Jan. I’ll tell you the whole story once you’re settled in your room at my house. But let me do this for Harmony. Let me do this for you, okay? Let me do this for me. ”

Chapter 7
    From the audio journal of a forty-five-year-old woman, taped for the files of Moving On, an underground highway for abused women.
    Before I married, were there signs that all wasn’t what it seemed? Were there moments when my confidence in our happy future was shaken?
    Had I been educated enough, wary enough, perhaps, I might have wondered why the Abuser was in such a hurry to put a ring on my finger. Or why he often planned surprises on the nights I intended to spend with my friends. Or why he suggested we begin a family immediately after we married instead of waiting until I completed my degree. I might have wondered why the house he bought had no immediate neighbors, or why he worried so frequently and loudly about our city’s dangerous traffic that I began to question my own ability to drive through it.
    But the Abuser and his kind are masters of subtlety and excuses. He was in a hurry to marry because he loved me so much. He always seemed genuinely sorry that I’d made other plans when he arrived for a surprise date. Why not have children while we were young, so we could still travel and enjoy ourselves after they left home? Didn’t I love the countryside, where I could have a larger house? Not only was the country lovely, but I was safer there, outside the city, with all its hazards.
    In those early months, before we said our vows, he never lifted a hand to me. He rarely even lifted his voice, although he did talk over my comments frequently enough that alarm bells should have sounded. Nor was he aggressive or belligerent when we were in the company of others. Not that we often were. The Abuser wanted me all to himself, and like the romantic girl I was, I thought that showed how much he loved me.
    He was often critical of others, but less often of me. When he did criticize, his words were framed as suggestions, patiently issued, lovingly meant. He wanted the best for me. A friend I’d chosen, an activity I loved? Perhaps there were better options.
    I can’t place all the blame on the man I chose to marry. I wanted to be loved and taken care of. I wanted to believe that someone could turn my sadness to joy, and I could be happy again. I had never learned one of life’s most important lessons. I am responsible for my own happiness. Letting somebody else take on that responsibility was like diving into murky waters without checking for rocks or sharks.
    * * *
    Jan stared out the side window of her new bedroom at a narrow pergola adorned with hanging flower baskets.
    “Like I said, this was my father’s house,” Taylor said from the doorway. “He’s an architect and of course, he can’t leave anything alone. This used to be a pretty standard little ranch house, but when he finished, it was sort of modern Asian, sleek, stark....”
    “It’s anything but stark now. It’s lovely.” Jan turned and saw that Taylor’s arms were filled with fresh linens. She made a pretty picture, chin-length dark hair falling forward, sheets and blankets piled in front of a willowy body. Before Jan could take them, Taylor set them on the white bedspread.
    “Oh, it was lovely when he finished it, too, but Maddie and I wanted something a little warmer. It was pretty masculine. So we painted the siding cream, added shutters to match the porch pillars and planted flowers everywhere. A lot of the furniture was Dad’s, but we added pillows and slipcovers, rugs on the