A/N: I own nothing!

Songs for this story are:

Vivian Greene - Tired

Carrie Underwood - Jesus Take The Wheel --- (Kind of the inspiration for the story, really.)

Destiny's Child - Through With Love

Frank Sinatra - I'll Be Home For Christmas --- (Yeah, I guess it kind of is a christmas story.)

I really hope you enjoy it, please review!!

Leah's POV

I was running around frantically, counting and checking again and again in my head, trying to make sure I had everything we would need. I glanced at the clock on the wall in our cozy little kitchen, the housewarming gift from my Nana before she passed away. It was 2:05 in the afternoon. We didn't have a lot of time, time was running out.

Come on Leah, Come on, you have get your stuff…get some sweats and pajamas. Pajamas! I forgot the pajamas!

Sprinting back into our bedroom, I ran around our large king bed to my dresser to grab some pajamas out the bottom drawer. It was then I noticed just how many of his shirts were in there, how many of them I wore to bed, and I was disgusted with them.

I ran back into the living room, and stuffed them into the duffel bag, running down the rest of my mental checklist. Okay, I have my facial cloths and everything out of the bathroom, it's in the bag, I should check if I got all the baby stuff…

Upon mentioning baby stuff, I glanced at my little angel sitting in his car seat on the couch next to the duffel bag. He was watching me run around the house like a chicken with its head cut off, occasionally laughing when I ran into something or stubbed my toe. I would curse and hop around like a maniac and he would think it was hilarious. He smiled up at me, giggling and clapping his hands. I stared down into his beautiful hazel eyes, like mine. He was so handsome.

"What's so funny, huh?" I asked, tickling his stomach which made him dance and squirm in his seat happily.

I took off into the nursery, making sure I got everything out the drawers, everything out the crib and the closet. Check.

I ran back and spun in a full circle in the middle of the living room, making sure there was nothing else left.

Nope.

I took a deep breath taking in the room one last time, the place I'd called home for the last 6 months. It was small, only the master bedroom and the nursery, but it was perfect for us. I didn't like it in the beginning, but of course, I gave in because he wanted it so badly.

Him.

Just thinking about him made me scowl and made my stomach turn. I looked at the picture we took as a family on the table, and resisted the urge to break it. If I did, which I so wanted to, it would be a telltale giveaway and I wouldn't have time enough to escape. Everything has to look exactly the same, with only a few things missing. Yet, not enough that he'll notice it in time.

I walked over to the picture, picking up the very one next to it. It was senior prom, and we looked so happy together. I looked so happy. I didn't have a care in the world, everything was perfect, and I was going to get my dream life: the perfect husband, a family, and a house to grow old in. I looked like a totally different person back then, I smiled so much more, I dressed cuter than I do now, I was just…better. And he was perfect—the perfect boyfriend, the perfect friend, the perfect lover, the perfect everything. I guess I should've realized that nothing is ever perfect.

That just feels like it was ages ago…lifetimes ago…it's hard to believe it's only been two years. Never had I imagined my life would end up this way.

This isn't me…I'm not myself anymore…I used to be Leah Orenda Clearwater…my name means great spirit…so why did I become such a door mat? A push over? A pity case.

I miss me…I want me back. And I'm going to get me back.

I quickly picked up the duffel bag and ran it outside to my car, it was just a Chevy Cobalt, and stuffed it in the trunk. I put my purse on the front seat, and patted my pocket to make sure my keys were there.

Running back into the house, I saw the baby was fine, just waiting for me to get back, and everything was in place. With one more glance over, I noticed that one thing was missing, if not the most important thing.

I gave the baby a quick kiss on the cheek and ran into our cramped bedroom for the last time, to retrieve the letter folded and written very neatly. I picked it up and looked at it in my hand, asking myself one last time if I was doing the right thing.

I looked over at a picture on his dresser of him holding the baby smiling big for the camera. Our son looked so much like him, it wasn't even funny. I'm not particularly sure how I feel about that anymore. I love my baby and I would never trade him for anything in the world, but now…now his father is a different story.

The picture sparked the memory of the day I snapped it.

Right afterward we got into an argument over something really petty, and he slapped me. It wasn't the first time he'd hit me, but it was the first time he'd done it in front of our son. He told me to go in the bedroom and wait till he said I could come out because I needed a time-out, treating me like a child in grade school. He wasn't always this controlling, but after the baby was born, he proposed, we moved in together, and everything started to change. He liked things to be on schedule. He liked his house clean, he liked me to be where I told him I would be and doing what he said to do, he liked his meals on time, his baths on time, and he hated whenever the baby's diaper wasn't changed—even if it had just happened. I really got it good when that happened. He started controlling what I ate, where I went, how much money I could spend, how I dressed, sometimes even how I thought. Not only had he became physically abuse, but he was verbally abusive too. Where had the old me gone? I would've never taken this, from anyone. Yet, I took it wordlessly from him. I didn't argue anymore, I didn't fight. And I started to believe him. All the mean, hurtful things he said to me and told me I was. And the way he treated me…like I was his slave.

He couldn't get the baby stop crying after I walked into the bedroom…

I waited in there for nearly an hour, and when I was finally tired of waiting I walked back out into the living room. He was sitting on the couch, bouncing the baby on his lap. I knew he could tell I was in the room, but he was ignoring me for the moment.

The baby was just smiling and giggling and making spit bubbles, clapping his hands happily as he played with his dad. When he smiled, he looked just like his father. So much, now it scared me. This time, this time was different from all the other times he'd held him. This time, he had a crazed look in his eye and a deranged smile on his face, which scared the life out of me. He wouldn't hurt my baby, would he? No, not my baby…

As I watched him, tears started to fall from my eyes. I had no idea what he was thinking; all I knew is that I wanted my baby as far away from him as possible.

The tears were falling rapidly now. "My baby…please…don't touch him…give him to me, please…please give him…" I cried.

His head snapped over at me and his wicked smile grew even wider. "What do you want?" He asked in a disturbingly mocking tone, before holding the baby up. "Oh, you want him?" He said teasingly. The baby started clapping and laughing when he finally saw me.

I nodded in response to his question, my bottom lip quivering.

"Oh." He said, before placing the baby back in his arms snuggling and ticking his stomach. "Nah, you can't have him." He finished.

I held my arms out for him, as I slowly approached the both of them on the couch. I was crying so hard, that my vision was getting blurry. "Please, give me my baby…please." I sniffed.

He looked up at me with cold eyes, and a stone face. His tone was dead and murderous and the venom in it made me flinch. "No, see that's where you're mistaken. This is my baby. MY son."

I snapped out of the memory shaking my head, not wanting to relive the rest of what happened that awful night. It was that memory that made up my mind.

I walked back into the living room and placed the note in between some of the letters that came in the mail today, and placed them neatly in the center of the coffee table in front of the couch. Where he wanted it placed, waiting for him everyday. I didn't even get to look at the bills or open the mail. Even mail that came addressed to me. He told me nobody really wanted to talk to me because I wasn't that important.

He would read the mail about ten minutes within arriving in the door, as was his daily routine. Speaking of routines and times, I glanced at the clock by the TV and it was 2:15. I had to get out of here.

I knew that was it, so bundled the baby in his seat and ran back to the hall closet to grab my jacket.

When I ran back in the living room there he stood, in front of the coffee table, with the mail in one hand, and my letter in the other. The front door was closed, and I wondered how I hadn't heard him come in. And what was he doing home early? He never gets in until 2:30.

He was supposed to come home and we were supposed to be gone.