Chapter 7 - The Echoes in the Dark
Healing isn't a straight line. There were nights when Ruby would wake up screaming, thrashing against the sheets, convinced that the trash bag was back, convinced that she was locked in a dark room.
On those nights, I didn't try to use logic. I simply climbed into bed beside her, pulled her tight against my chest, and rocked her back and forth until her breathing synchronized with mine.
“They’re gone, baby,” I would whisper into her hair, kissing her temple over and over again. “You are safe. Nobody will ever hurt you again. Your body belongs to you, and you are loved just the way you are.”
Trevor joined us often during those midnight vigils, wrapping his arms around both of us, his body shaking with silent, guilty sobs. He carried an immense burden of self-blame—the agonizing realization that his desire to keep the peace had nearly cost him his daughter's life.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered one night while Ruby had finally drifted back to sleep between us. “I let them in. I let them treat you both like that because I was too cowardly to draw a hard line.”
I turned in the dim light of the nightlight and cupped his stubbled cheek, wiping a tear from his eye. “You didn't know, Trevor. But you chose us when it mattered. That’s what counts.”
May you like
To help Ruby process the lingering anxiety, her therapist introduced a brilliant exercise. She called the internal voices of self-doubt and criticism “The Echoes.” Whenever Ruby felt insecure about her body, or hesitated before taking a bite of food, she was taught to look in the mirror and say aloud: “That’s not my voice. That’s an Echo. Go away.”
It became our household mantra. Whenever an Echo tried to sneak back in, Ruby fought back with fierce, defiant joy.
