Then the desktop loaded.
Forty-three unread emails.
Most were congratulations.
My manager, Cynthia Hart, had sent three messages.
Call me when you can. No pressure.
Then:
Rachel, I saw your assistant’s note. Are you safe?
I stared at the sentence.
It was such a simple question.
But I didn’t know how to answer it.
Was I safe?
Daniel had never hit me.
He had never threatened my life.
If someone had asked me the day before whether I was in an abusive marriage, I probably would have said no.
But what exactly did you call waking up with your spouse holding your head down while he cut away part of your hair?
What did you call years of financial dependence disguised as masculine pride?
What did you call needing permission to succeed peacefully?
I clicked Cynthia’s name.
She answered almost immediately.
“Rachel?”
Her voice was careful.
“Hi.”
