Right after my husband left for his business trip, my six-year-old gripped my hand and quietly said, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

“Ayira, I do not trust that husband of yours,” he had said.

I had laughed at him back then. “Dad, stop it, Dominic takes great care of us,” I had replied.

My father had stared at me for a long time. “If you ever need real help, call this person,” he said.

He had pressed a business card into my palm. It said Sarah Jenkins, Attorney at Law.

I had tucked the card into my wallet and tried to forget the conversation. It felt like a betrayal to even keep it.

Now my wallet was likely burning in the remains of my bedroom. But the number was saved in a hidden note on my phone.

My hands shook as I pulled up the contact and tapped the screen. One ring turned into two.

On the third ring, a woman with a firm voice answered. “Attorney Jenkins,” she said.

“Ms. Jenkins, my name is Ayira. My father was Robert Miller,” I blurted out.

“I need help. I think my husband just tried to kill me and my son,” I said.

There was a long silence on the other end. Then she spoke softer. “Robert’s daughter,” she noted.

Hearing my father’s name felt like a hand reaching out to save me. “Where are you right now?” she asked.