The Leaving Kind (Andrea’s Point of View)

I didn’t pack a bag.

I didn’t leave a note.

I just... ran.

Anthony was strapped in his car seat before I even knew what I was doing. My hands were shaking, my breath ragged. The ring on my finger felt heavier than bone, like it was dragging my whole arm down with it.

Doc had gone in for a surgery—just a few hours. That’s all I had. A narrow window before I’d have to face his warmth, his questions, his certainty. And I couldn’t.

Not after Tio showed up on my doorstep like a ghost dressed in clean lines and quiet threats.

Not after the look in his eyes when he saw the ring.

Not when I realized I’d built a whole fragile life on top of a truth I’d buried too deep.

Because the truth was: I was scared. Not of Tio. Not of Doc. But of myself. Of how easily I could fall apart.

So, I drove.

Miles of empty highway blurred under me as Anthony hummed some nonsense song in the backseat, his little voice grounding me just enough to keep me from veering off into madness.

I didn’t know where I was going. Somewhere without answers. Somewhere I didn’t have to be anything.

I ended up at the beach.

Not some glamorous coastline, just a little stretch of sand and gray water an hour from the city. A place where no one would think of finding me. Where the wind could whip through my hair and remind me that I was still real. Still here.

I wrapped Anthony in a sweater and let him run in the sand. He laughed like none of it mattered. Like the world was still safe and small.

And I watched him, my heart aching.

Because I knew I was breaking Doc’s heart.

He’d wake up, check his phone, see the empty house—and panic. Maybe call Kay, or Joe, or even the police. Maybe think I’d been taken. Hurt. Or maybe, worst of all, that I didn’t want this life with him.

But that wasn’t it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him.

It was that I didn’t know how to let myself have him. Or anyone.

Not when I still felt like a fractured thing.

Not when Tio could just appear and unspool everything I’d tried to stitch back together.

I sat on the sand and cried. For the girl I used to be. For the woman I was trying to become. For the love I didn’t know how to hold without dropping it.

Anthony came over, covered in wet sand, his cheeks pink from the cold.

“Mama,” he said softly, crawling into my lap. “Why you sad?”

I kissed the top of his head.

“Because being brave is really hard sometimes.”

He didn’t ask more. Just rested his head against my chest.

And I held him. The only thing in my life I was ever sure of.