Help Me Believe

Chapter 11: The Escape

Journal Entry — Faith’s Diary

Dear Journal,

He came back.

After everything—after disappearing, after silence—he returned like nothing had happened. No apology. No explanation. Just a smile and a few soft words: “I missed you.” “I’ve changed.” “I want to be a father again.”

And I wanted to believe him.

Not for me. For the girls. For the hope I hadn’t fully let go of. For the dream I once carried of a whole family, of healing, of redemption. I wanted to believe that maybe this time would be different. That maybe love could return and stay. That maybe the man who once held our baby girl with trembling hands and whispered promises could become the father she needed.

But it didn’t take long for the truth to show.

The bullying started quietly. Subtle. Almost invisible. Little comments that chipped away at their confidence. Cold stares that made them shrink. Sarcasm disguised as jokes. I saw it in their eyes—confusion, fear, that shrinking silence I knew too well. The same silence I used to carry. The same silence I had fought so hard to break.

Then it grew.

He’d raise his voice at the children when I wasn’t home. Twist their words. Make them feel small. He’d question their choices, mock their emotions, punish them for things that didn’t matter. And when I confronted him, he’d deny it. Say I was imagining things. Say I was too sensitive. Say they were just being dramatic.

But I knew better.

I was working long hours, trying to keep food on the table, trying to hold everything together. I’d come home exhausted, hoping for peace, only to find tension thick in the air. The house became a battlefield again. Not with fists, but with fear. Not with shouting, but with silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Then came the break-in attempts.

One after another. Windows rattling at night. Locks tested. Shadows outside. I started sleeping with one eye open, praying over every door, every corner. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, checking the girls’ room, checking the windows, checking the locks. It felt like the enemy was pressing in from all sides—through him, through fear, through the very walls of our home.

I felt trapped.

Not just physically—but spiritually. Emotionally. I felt like I was losing ground. Like the peace I had fought so hard to build was slipping through my fingers. Like the safety I had promised my daughters was being stolen in the night.

I asked God what to do.

I begged Him for clarity. For safety. For a way out. I didn’t want to make another mistake. I didn’t want to uproot the girls again. I didn’t want to leave unless I was sure.

And He answered.

Not with thunder. Not with fire. Not with dramatic signs. Just a quiet instruction: *Leave.*

It came like a whisper. Like a breath. Like a knowing that settled deep in my spirit. I didn’t hear it with my ears—I felt it in my bones. And I knew it was Him.

So we did.

I packed what I could. Grabbed the girls. Left behind the chaos, the memories, the weight. We escaped to another city—no plan, no certainty, just faith. Just trust. Just the belief that if God said go, He would also provide the place to land.

It wasn’t easy.

There were tears. Questions. Fears. The girls didn’t understand at first. They missed their school, their friends, their routines. I missed the illusion of stability. I missed the parts of him that once felt safe. But I didn’t miss the fear. I didn’t miss the silence. I didn’t miss the shrinking.

Leaving was necessary.

It was obedience. It was protection. It was love.

And even in the unknown, I felt peace.

Because obedience brings protection. And God never asks us to leave without preparing a place to land. He doesn’t call us out of Egypt without parting the sea. He doesn’t ask us to walk on water without reaching out His hand.

We’re still healing.

Still rebuilding. Still learning how to trust again. Still figuring out how to create new rhythms in a new city. But we’re safe. The girls are sleeping through the night. They’re laughing more. They’re asking questions about God again. They’re starting to believe in peace.

And I’m starting to believe in myself.

I’m starting to believe that I can protect them. That I can lead them. That I can hear God and follow Him, even when the path is unclear. I’m starting to believe that I’m not just surviving—I’m growing.

This new chapter is quiet.

It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But it’s sacred. It’s covered. It’s held.

I still pray over every door. Still check the windows. Still speak life into every room. But now, those prayers come from a place of authority—not fear. Now, I know who I am. Now, I know who He is.

We’re not just rebuilding a home.

We’re rebuilding a legacy.

One of faith. One of strength. One of healing.

And that’s more than enough for now.

Love,

Faith