"Look what you made me do," Derek snarled from the doorway, his words slurred from the beer he'd been nursing since noon. "If you weren't so damn clumsy, dropping things all the time..."

Maya didn't bother correcting him. She knew the vase hadn't slipped from her hands-Derek had hurled it in a fit of rage when she'd quietly suggested he might want to look for work tomorrow instead of spending another day on the couch. Three years of walking on eggshells, three years of making excuses for bruises, three years of telling herself it would get better. But watching her four-year-old twins, Emma and Ethan, peek around the corner with fear in their wide brown eyes, Maya realized she couldn't do this anymore.

"Pack your things," Derek continued, swaying slightly as he pointed an accusatory finger at her. "I'm done with you and those brats. You've got until morning."

For once, Maya didn't argue. She didn't plead or promise to do better. Instead, she simply nodded and began planning her escape.