The blood from my split lip hit the concrete before my son even stopped screaming. My father loomed over me with his fist still clenched, and my mother wore a satisfied smirk, looking as though she had just claimed a victory.

I didn't move back into the house. It held too many ghosts, too many echoes of a childhood spent walking on eggshells and a brutal night of violence.

Instead, I immediately put it on the market. Because the neighborhood was gentrifying, and the roof and HVAC were brand new—thanks to me—it sold above asking price in just fourteen days.

After paying off the remaining mortgage, I walked away with over two hundred thousand dollars in pure profit.

It was freedom money.

I used a portion of it to secure a beautiful, sunlit townhouse in a quiet suburb two towns over, nestled next to an excellent elementary school for Leo. I put the rest into a college fund for him and a retirement account for me.

Six months later, life was unrecognizable.

It was a Saturday morning. The sun was streaming through our large bay windows. I was sipping coffee on a plush velvet sofa while Leo sat on the hardwood floor, building a massive spaceship out of Legos. His asthma had improved drastically in the clean, stress-free environment. His laughter filled the house, bright and unbroken.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was an email from Sarah Jenkins, checking in.

“Just heard through the grapevine. Arthur is having a rough time in lockup. Diane is working shifts at a laundromat on the East Side. How are my two favorite clients doing?”

I smiled, setting my coffee mug down. I looked at the faint, barely visible scar on my jawline—a tiny, silver reminder of the price of my freedom.

I typed back a single sentence.