Mommy, can we get a pretzel on the way out, please? >> Yes, baby. I promise. Sneakers first. >> I never thought a Friday afternoon at Westfield Mall would be the day I’d stop breathing in front of my daughter. Nikia had been begging me all week to take her shopping for new sneakers. Her old ones were falling apart, and I’d finally scraped together enough from my paycheck at the dental office where I work as a receptionist.
She was practically bouncing beside me, her little hand gripping mine as we walked past the food court. She kept pointing at the pretzel stand, asking if we could get one on the way out. I promised her we would.
That’s when I saw DeAndre. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The restraining order was clear. He couldn’t come within 500 feet of us. But there he was, pushing through the crowd with that look on his face. That same look he’d had every time before things got bad. Every time he decided I needed to be reminded who I belonged to.
Nikia saw him, too. Her grip on my hand tightened. “Mommy,” she whispered.
I tried to turn us around. I tried to walk away quickly, but he was already closing the distance. People were shopping, laughing, living their normal lives around us. Nobody knew what was about to happen. Nobody ever does.
“Adrien,” his voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Don’t you walk away from me.”
I kept moving, pulling Nikia closer, but he caught up. His hand grabbed my arm first, spinning me around so hard I stumbled. I could smell the alcohol on him even from that distance.
“DeAndre, not here. Please, not in front of Nikia.”
“You think you can just take my daughter and disappear? Think you’re better than me now? >> You think you can just walk away from me? You think you’re better than me now? >>”
Before I could respond, his hand was around my throat. The pressure was immediate and terrifying. My purse fell to the floor. I clawed at his fingers, trying to breathe, trying to scream, but nothing came out. The world started to blur at the edges.
People were shouting now, but nobody moved to help. They never do. They just pull out their phones.
Then I heard Nikia. “Daddy, stop. Daddy, please.” She dropped to her knees right there on the mall floor, her little hands pressed together like she was praying. Tears were streaming down her face, her voice breaking with every word. “Please don’t hurt Mommy. Please, Daddy, stop.”
DeAndre didn’t even look at her. His eyes stayed locked on mine, full of rage and something worse—satisfaction. He was enjoying this, enjoying the power, enjoying her fear.
“You’re nothing without me,” he hissed. “You hear me? Nothing.”
I couldn’t breathe. Nikia was sobbing, begging on her knees, and he didn’t care. He never cared.
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