Disclaimer: Steven Universe is the creation of Rebecca Sugar.

The post office was open the day after the abduction. The lobby opened promptly at 8 am, just as it always has. Barb was right there, behind the desk, ready with a smile and a competent air, prepared to assist a patron with any need they may have. No one was terribly surprised by this—even though Barb's daughter Sadie was one of the Beach City residents who'd been taken by the aliens. No, this was just Barb's way: plow through the fear and the trauma, keep a level head and a stiff upper lip, be the rock that a weaker soul might need. It was just her way.

At least, that was the way she was now.

The past didn't matter. It was a small, shriveled, dried-out husk tossed back in a corner, not to be thought about. Barb didn't live in the past; she survived it, and she never planned to go back. That didn't mean, however, that it didn't resurface in her mind from time to time—usually appearing as a footnote to whatever might be happening to her in the present.

That was just the sort of situation Barb found herself in now, as she sorted the incoming mail into the huge, frosty-white tubs that dictated the various routes to be taken for delivery. She'd already decided that she'd keep the lobby open for services until about noon, then she'd deliver the mail around town, and then finally come back late in the afternoon and get the parcels ready for the central hub to come collect the outgoing mail. She wasn't going to have a break today, even for lunch, but that was fine; she didn't have much of an appetite today anyway.

She thought of Sadie, at home alone recovering, as she tossed the envelopes of various sizes and shapes into the bins. She'd wanted to stay home with her baby girl, but with Jamie out sick, she had no choice. She had to come in and do her job. Sadie had wanted to go into work at the Big Donut, but Barb insisted she stay home and take it easy. She knew her daughter was still reeling from everything that had happened. She'd lost two of her friends the day before: Steven, and Lars. Barb's heart ached for Steven, the sweet boy who'd given himself up to save her daughter and the others.

She couldn't, however, say the same for Lars.

She knew the boy must struggle with some mental things, and she'd met his folks on her mail route and they seemed like nice enough people—but she hated the way he'd treated her daughter. He took her for granted, was blind to her feelings. And yet, Sadie was devoted to him. It scared Barb; she knew this pattern well. She'd lived this pattern. She didn't want her daughter making the same mistakes she did, and so there was a part of her that was glad that Lars Barriga was gone. Because if Lars was gone, that meant that Sadie wouldn't have to do what Barb had had to do several years ago: gather up enough courage to leave and never go back.

The insidious problem with abuse (of any kind) is that it's often difficult to see—even to the person being abused. And, of course, the abuser doesn't think that what they're doing is abuse, so they're blind to it as well. What makes abuse hard to define is that it's not a constant state of pain and terror; it comes in waves.

Barb would sometimes go weeks without a slap to the face, or a punch to the gut, or just being shouted at that she was a hideous cow. Sometimes Cal would come home and it would be wonderful; he'd be in a great mood, he'd had a great day at work. She'd serve him a meal that he'd love and rave about, and he'd sit on the sofa and hold her hand and smile over at her. Sadie would play with her blocks at their feet, and it was perfect. Sometimes there would be days, even weeks, where it would be perfection, just like this, and Barb would convince herself that this was the way it was going to be from here on out—that the last time he'd shoved her into the wall or broke one of her porcelain dolls truly was the last time.

But, inevitably, something would go wrong: someone upset him at the office, or she'd forget to starch his shirts, or Sadie would act out, and Cal's temper would flare again. Fortunately, Barb had managed to keep Cal's anger directed only at her, never at their daughter. On those late nights after Cal went to bed, when she'd be tending to her injuries or sweeping up the debris left from one of his rampages, Barb would talk herself out of leaving. She'd calculate how often these things happened, and really, it wasn't too much. Maybe once or twice a month—sometimes it didn't happen for two or three months at a time!

And it wasn't like Cal was out drinking and carousing at all hours; no, he was an honest, hard-working man who provided a good life for her and Sadie. He never drank at all, he was always home on time, and he made sure that the bills were always paid and there was food in the fridge and clothes on their backs. When Cal did have an outburst, there was a reason behind it; it's not like he hit her for no reason. It was pressure at work, or his parents breathing down his neck, or something like that. Cal wasn't perfect, after all—and he always apologized afterwards. Maybe not in words, but in actions. He'd send flowers, or he'd take Barb and Sadie to a nice restaurant. Were those the actions of a man who didn't care? Of course not!

And where could Barb go, anyway? She had no family left, besides Sadie. Her mother had died just a year before Sadie was born. This was all she had. Leaving would feel like giving up. And she had no idea how to start all over again.

Eventually the opportunity would find her, instead of the other way around. Right after Sadie turned three years old, Barb started to have the feeling that she was being watched. She had no concrete proof; it wasn't like she saw anyone or anything, she just sensed it. It didn't even bother her, surprisingly enough. If there was someone who was watching her, their presence seemed harmless.

One day during this time, Barb went grocery shopping. Sadie, sitting in the basket of the cart, kept throwing her cloth doll up in the air and inevitably dropped it, and Barb had to keep picking it up and handing it back to her. Barb was trying to choose between two different cuts of meat, weighing the importance of picking something Cal would like as opposed to saving money like he'd want, when she heard a voice: "She's adorable."

Barb looked up to see a stunningly beautiful woman, smiling down at her. Her figure was athletic but very feminine—and she was quite tall, taller than most men Barb had ever seen. Her stick-straight, bright blonde hair hung down to her waist and had a single streak of pink running through it. She was dressed in tight red pedal pushers, a white tee, and a black denim jacket with roses embroidered on the arms. Sadie put her arm over her mouth and giggled, knowing the compliment was meant for her.

"Oh!" it took Barb a moment to gather her thoughts. "Thank you."

"This is a wonderful age, isn't it?" The woman asked. "So many things to learn. So much wonder." She bent ever so slightly and smiled again at Sadie, who smiled back. "Enjoy it."

Barb couldn't tell if the woman was talking to Sadie, or to her. There was a unique quality to the woman's voice: sweet and yearning and wise all at the same time. "Yes, we'll try. Thank you." The woman nodded and went on her way.

Barb didn't really give the encounter another thought—until she got to the checkout line and saw the woman was a couple people ahead of her in the line and was being waited on by the cashier. When she was told the total for her groceries, she fumbled through her purse, slowly, then quickly, and then stammered, "Oh, I'm s-sorry. I-I don't seem to have...$25.80, right?"

"Yep," the cashier—a teenaged girl who looked bored out of her mind—replied.

"Well, I only have $20." The woman looked around, forlorn. The other customers were now a mix of annoyed, anxious, or sympathetic faces. No one seemed to know what to do.

Something seemed to activate in Barb, and she felt for the woman. Pulling out her wallet, she stepped out of line and walked toward the register. "Here," she said, handing the cashier six dollars. "That should cover it."

The woman turned to Barb with look of surprise and joy. "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" she reached for Barb's hand.

Barb took the woman's hand in hers with a smile. Her smile quickly faded, however, when she realized the woman had pushed a slip of paper into her palm. Barb met the woman's knowing gaze, then went back to reclaim her place in line, remembering that she'd left Sadie in the cart alone.

That night, the piece of paper made its way into the pocket of Barb's bathrobe, which was wrapped around her while she sat on the floor in the hallway, right outside of Sadie's room. She hoped that the cup of coffee she drank earlier would allow her to stay awake until morning. Cal's breathing, coming from across the hall, was still deep and even. Hopefully he'd sleep through the night, wake up with a clean slate, and go off to work in a good mood.

Barb had made a terrible mistake. At dinner, Cal had asked her how their day had gone, and she let it slip out that a woman at the cash register was short $5 and Barb had given it to her. She shut her eyes right after she said it—knowing that she shouldn't have and it was too late.

Cal stopped eating and just looked at her. "You gave a stranger money?"

Barb swallowed her mouthful and tried to smile. "It was only five dollars. She needed help. I just—"

"You're just giving our money away? I work hard to make money, and you go give it away!"

"Cal, please…"

He slammed down the fork so hard, Sadie looked up from her tomatoes and cucumbers in confusion. "What the hell were you thinking? I gave you that money to buy groceries for our family. I don't work to pay for other people's crap. Is that what you do with my money? Just give it away?"

"Of course not! I've never before. I-I-I just…felt bad for her, that's all. I'm sorry." Barb hung her head.

Cal sniffed, picked up his fork, and started to eat again. "You're a moron, Barb. Pure and simple. Don't ever let me catch you doing that again."

Barb was relieved. Cal didn't hold her hand while they watched TV, and he ignored her as they were going to bed, but that had been it. But just as she was starting to fall asleep, she remembered a time before, when she'd accidentally burned the dinner. Cal was furious that he'd worked hard all day, and all he wanted was a nice meal. He called her an idiot who couldn't do anything right, but he went out and got them fried chicken from the takeout place instead. Barb thought everything was fine, but he started pummeling her in the middle of the night. She'd been awakened by a fist to the gut and to the jaw. It was one of the worst incidences, because she was completely caught off guard. At least when Cal usually beat her, she was wide awake and fully prepared for it coming. She learned after that: sometimes he took his time building up his rage. She couldn't assume that because he'd seemed to let it go, that it was the end of it.

And that's why she sat in the hallway. She reasoned that if he woke up, ready to hit her, she'd be prepared. If he looked for her, she'd pretend that she'd heard Sadie and she was just checking on her.

Barb looked at the clock on the bureau. It was 2 am. Just four more hours until she had to wake him for work. She could make it. Just don't fall asleep.

She sighed and tucked her hand into her pocket, and her fingers made contact with the slip of paper from the woman at the market. She pulled it out and looked at it. It was a string of numbers, random numbers, it seemed—too long to be a phone number. There were also several pound signs and stars mixed in with the numbers. It made no sense at all to Barb.

And yet, while she looked at it, something seemed to change. Barb almost felt like she'd was being pulled up and out of herself, moved in a way so that she was apart from her world and she could look at it objectively, in its entirety—like an impassive stranger.

Barb lived in fear, every single day of her life. She'd had her eyes blackened, her ribs bruised, her arm broken, her hands cut. She'd been called a cow, a loser, a fatass, a worthless sack of lard. Every day of her married life she cried; she waited until Cal left for work, and Sadie was busy playing or napping, and she went into her closet and let herself cry for ten minutes.

She had no control over life, at all. No true moment of peace, where she could do what she pleased and be okay with it. She always had to be perfect, to do things the way Cal wanted them done, or she risked igniting his temper. She was like a guest in someone else's home—a guest who had worn out her welcome but who desperately wanted to belong.

And at that very moment, she was sitting on the floor in the hallway in the middle of the night, struggling to stay awake so that she could avoid being battered by her husband for showing someone some kindness. What was she doing?

Barb's mother gave her some advice was she was a teenager: whoever it is you marry, just make sure that he loves you more than you love him. Barb knew exactly where this advice had come from; her father had left her and her mother for another woman when she was young. Barb's mother always blamed herself for choosing the wrong man to marry and didn't want Barb to make the same mistake.

Barb so desperately wanted a home and a family. She wanted to make it work, to give her daughter what she hadn't had. But she didn't want to be hurt, either. And how long would it be until Cal decided that Sadie was a fair target? Barb couldn't bear the thought of him doing the things he did to her to their child.

She finally was able to see things for what they were. And she wanted out.

After Cal left for work and Sadie was taking her afternoon nap, Barb looked at the slip of paper the woman had given her and tried to figure out what to do. At last, she did the only thing she could think of. She'd treat the sequence of numbers like a phone number, and dial it.

Taking a deep breath, Barb dialed ***35**#68*47012#*9011237##**56024. At first she thought the operator would cut her off mid-dial to tell her that her call couldn't be completed as dialed, but that didn't happen. Instead, she heard a faint whooshing sound for a few minutes, then something that sounded like a song. Then there was the sound of water flowing, and that sound lasted for several minutes. Barb wasn't sure what to do; she didn't want to hang up, but at the same time, she wasn't sure if it was worth hanging on.

Just as Barb was about to put down the phone, she heard a voice say, "Hello, there."

Barb recognized this voice. It was low, melodic, and kind—the woman in the market. "Um, hi."

A laugh, like the tinkling of bells. "Hello."

"Um…I'm Barb? I was at the market the other day…you needed five bucks…"

"Oh yes! With the little girl?"

"Right!" Barb was starting to feel better. "I got the slip of paper you put in my hand."

"Obviously." That laugh again. "What can I do for you?"

Barb hesitated. She hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Hello?" the voice asked.

"Oh! Sorry, I was trying to get my thoughts together. Um….well you see…I'm kinda, well, unhappy where I am. My husband, he sometimes hits me, and he makes me feel bad about myself, and I don't know how much more I can take—"

"He abuses you."

This gave Barb pause. She'd never thought of that word. Yes. Of course. What else could you possibly call it? It was abuse. She was married to an abuser. She was being abused. "I don't know if you can help me…"

"I can. And you can help me too, if you're willing."