Striding away, head held high bearing an unwavering smirk should have been freedom. Empowering at best, brave at least. Instead, I felt cold and bleak.
Six months of sweeping me off my feet did not compensate for almost three years of physical, verbal and sexual abuse. Nor did the loving words as you cradled my stomach, swollen with our children despite being barely out of childhood myself.
When you fought your way into my life I was a girl. When I left I emerged a woman, albeit a broken one. Miscarriages can happen to anyone, but I know you blamed me. By some miracle, whilst I was pregnant you never laid a finger on me, and the first punch afterwards missed.
A few years later when I discovered your death, I felt grief and relief. You put me through hell, you stole my innocence. In three years you gave me a life I wouldn't wish on anyone. However, I thank you.
If you hadn't violated me, I would not have fallen pregnant. I would not have lost my children, who I pray to every night. They would not have sent me pure strength to dodge your well-timed hit, smack you back and walk away.
When I walked on, I felt lost. When I moved on, I felt joy. I hadn't felt that in so long Ronald, it was incredible to regain.
That's when, thanks to Draco, I learnt the true meaning of freedom.
It is not fresh air or dying your hair.
It is not laughing or crying.
It is not even about running or walking away from that which restrains us. That is courage, Ron.
Freedom is having the courage to accept the love we deserve. Freedom is bravery and empowerment. Freedom is to be kicked down and still have the strength to smile. It is recognising your heart and putting it to use. When I bumped into Draco, only months after walking out on you, I felt my deep bruises begin to heal. He took away my pain, and I kissed his scars away.
Freedom is life. You wasted yours, Ronald. You broke me so much that I almost wasted mine.
But, guess what? I am free, and I am doing just fine.