I was thirteen, and my life ran on Dale’s rules.
My name is Wyatt.
After my mom died, the house didn’t just get quiet—it shrank. Every sound felt too loud. Every step felt watched. And Dale, my stepfather, filled that silence with rules he’d never bothered with before.
In front of other people, Dale was charming. Smiling. Easy. The kind of guy who slapped backs and laughed too loud.
But when it was just me, everything changed.
“Don’t make noise. Don’t embarrass me,” he’d say. “And when I have company, you disappear.”
He loved having people over. Coworkers. “Business buddies.” Men who laughed like Dale was famous. Every time the doorbell rang, his eyes flicked to me.
“Room,” he’d say. “Stay there.”
I learned to move fast.
He hated the way I dressed. My black hoodies. My band shirts. If I wore eyeliner, he’d wrinkle his nose and mutter, “Weird.”
My mom used to smile when she saw me like that. She’d touch my cheek and say, “You’re allowed to be you.”
Dale definitely didn’t agree.
“It’s just a hoodie,” I’d say.
Sometimes he’d snap so fast it made my head spin. One second calm, the next ice-cold.
Once, I forgot myself. His friends were over, laughing downstairs. I headed for the kitchen, thirsty.
“Where are you going?” he hissed.
“Water.”
He grabbed my wrist and squeezed hard enough to make my fingers tingle. “Not like that,” he said through his teeth. “Not in front of them.”
“It’s just a hoodie,” I whispered.
“You trying to make me look bad?” he asked.
“No.”
He let go like I burned him and pointed down the hall. “Room. Now.”
That night, I drank water from the bathroom sink.
After that, I stopped being home when I could help it. I stayed late after school. Took long walks. Sat behind the library until it closed. Anything to avoid being alone with him.
One Saturday, everything changed.
Dale had people over again. Laughter shook the floor. A game blasted from the TV downstairs. I sat at my desk, trying to disappear, when my door flew open.
“Stay in here,” Dale snapped. “Don’t bother me.”
“I won’t.”
He slammed the door and yelled, “STAY IN THERE AND DON’T BOTHER ME!”
Someone downstairs laughed. Dale laughed too. Like I was a joke.
I only had one place that still felt safe.
I waited until his voice went sweet again, until I heard that fake charm he used with guests. Then I slid my window up.
First floor. Easy drop.
I climbed out and ran.
I didn’t pack anything. I didn’t grab shoes. I just ran.
The cemetery was a mile and a half away. The cold bit through my hoodie. I walked fast, head down, trying not to picture Dale finding my empty room.
The gate squeaked when I pushed it open, and I flinched anyway.
My mom’s grave sat under a big oak tree. Dale had picked the spot like he was choosing paint colors.
I dropped into the grass and stared at her name.
“Hey, Mom,” I whispered. “I’m hiding again.”
My throat tightened. “I miss you.”
Then I felt it—that feeling when someone’s behind you.
“Wyatt?”
My whole body locked.
I turned, heart slamming into my ribs.
A woman stood there in a coat and scarf, hands clasped tight. She had my mom’s eyes. My mom’s cheekbones. Even the faint smell of lavender.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Mom?” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Her face cracked. “No, honey.”
“Then why do you look like her?” I demanded. “Who are you?”
She glanced at the headstone, then back at me.
“I’m Nadine,” she said softly. “I’m your mom’s mother.”
“That’s not true,” I said, backing up. “Dale said she had no family.”
My hands were shaking.
Nadine’s jaw tightened. “Dale said what helped Dale.”
She pulled a photo from her purse and held it out like she was afraid I’d run.
I took it.
My mom sat on a couch, younger, smiling. She was holding a baby wrapped in a blanket.
Me.
“I have boxes,” Nadine said. “Cards. Letters. Gifts. I tried to send them.”
“I never got anything,” I said.
“I know,” she snapped. “Because they never reached you.”
“I come here every week,” she went on. “I’ve been hoping you’d show up.”
“Why?” My voice cracked.
She studied my face. “Because Dale made sure I couldn’t find you anywhere else. And because this was the only place I knew you might come.”
Then she asked, quietly, “Are you safe with him?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
She nodded like that was answer enough.
“Okay,” she said quickly when I flinched as she reached for my hand. “No touching.”
Then she said, steady and sure, “You’re coming with me.”
I should’ve run.
I didn’t.
Her car smelled like peppermint and clean laundry. I sat stiff, ready to bolt.
“You can tell me to stop anytime,” she said.
Her house was small and lived-in. Wind chimes clinked on the porch. Inside, a tall man stepped into the hallway, tense and unsure.
“Oh,” he said. “Hi.”
“Wyatt,” Nadine said, “this is Corbin.”
He swallowed. “I’m your uncle.”
“I don’t have—”
“I know,” he said gently. “You’ve been told that. But we’re here.”
They offered me hot chocolate. I almost said no out of habit.
“You’re welcome here,” Corbin said.
So I nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
Then Corbin pulled out a plastic bin and set it on the table.
“He lied,” Nadine said.
Envelopes spilled out. Some stamped. Some returned. Some unopened.
“That’s your tenth birthday,” she said, tapping one. “I wrote ‘Please give to Wyatt’ in big letters.”
Corbin slid another forward. “That’s after your mom’s funeral. We begged him to let us see you.”
“He told me nobody asked,” I whispered.
“He lied,” Nadine said again.
“What if he says you kidnapped me?” I asked. “What if he calls the cops?”
“Then we tell the truth,” Corbin said. “And we show them this.”
They asked about Dale.
“He yells,” I said.
“Does he hurt you?” Corbin asked.
“He grabs me,” I admitted. “My wrist. My arm.”
“We’re not sending you back,” Nadine said.
They called an officer.
When Dale opened the door, his smile froze.
“This is ridiculous,” he laughed. “He’s dramatic.”
The officer didn’t laugh.
“You don’t own him,” Corbin said.
“You stole eleven years,” Nadine added. “You don’t get one more day.”
I grabbed a hoodie, my charger, and my mom’s bracelet.
At Nadine’s, I didn’t sleep that first night. The quiet felt wrong.
“You can lock your door,” Corbin told me.
“Really?”
“Whatever makes you feel safe.”
That’s all I cared about—feeling safe.
Two weeks later, a letter arrived.
“If you keep this going, you’ll find out what really happened to your mother.”
At the cemetery, Nadine handed me another letter. My mom’s handwriting.
Inside was one line.
“My story didn’t end the way you were told.”
I understood then why Dale had been scared.
The scariest part wasn’t that he might come after me.
It was that my mom had been trying to warn me all along.
And now, finally, I was safe—and Dale knew exactly why.