Chapter 6: Alone At Last.

Hey sis,

If you’re still here, riding this emotional roller-coaster with me, please know that I am endlessly grateful. More than anything, I want to be real with you—raw, unfiltered, and honest in hopes that you’ll learn something from my experiences.

As you read these chapters, stepping into my past through my words, know that I’m right there with you, reliving it all. And somehow, the pain feels even sharper now than it did then. Crazy, right? How can something that’s already over still cut so deep? It’s just memories. It’s not even happening anymore.

But here’s the thing—just because something is in the past doesn’t mean it stops existing. Knowing that I made these choices, that I allowed these things to happen to me, still weighs on my heart. But what hurts even more is knowing how much I dragged my family into my storm. Even though I’ve reconciled with them, I’m still living with the consequences of my choices. The wounds may have closed, but the scars will always remain.

A lot of the relationships I’ve rebuilt are still delicate, fragile like a newborn baby—requiring patience, effort, and constant reassurance. Trust, once broken, doesn’t just snap back into place. It takes time. It takes consistency. And I’m still proving myself, still trying to repair what I once shattered.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that even though I was in a vulnerable place, even though I was hurting, I still have to take accountability for my part. Because that’s the only real way to heal. To grow. To move forward. And while I’ve made peace with my family, I still feel like an outsider sometimes. Like I don’t quite belong. That’s a consequence I may have to live with for the rest of my life. It’s rooted in shame, guilt, and embarrassment—feelings I wish I could shake, but I know they won’t just disappear overnight.

But here’s what I do know, sis—healing starts with forgiveness. And that includes forgiving yourself.

So if you ever find yourself drowning in guilt, if the weight of your past ever feels unbearable, please remember this—your mistakes don’t define you. Your past is not a life sentence. You are allowed to evolve. You are allowed to heal.

And above all, you are allowed to forgive yourself. Now let’s get into it.

Timeline: Year Spring 2015. Baby A was about 6 months old. I was 19.  

After the altercation, I went to the hospital, where they handed me muscle relaxers, pain medication, and a few ice packs for the bruises—then sent me home as if that would fix everything. The days that followed were eerily quiet, yet they carried a weight so heavy it felt like I was sinking under it. The bruises on my skin slowly faded, but the ones buried deep in my heart and spirit? They remained, invisible yet relentless, aching in ways only I could feel.

Being in my father’s house felt like suffocating in slow motion—agonizing, terrifying, unbearable. I didn’t belong there. And the worst part? I knew it. I had betrayed my family simply by staying, by choosing Cipher over them, by standing on the wrong side of the battle line I had never meant to draw.

Only days had passed since the explosion—since the screaming, the accusations, the irreparable damage—and yet, Cipher was back, parking his car in my father’s driveway as if nothing had happened. As if the wounds hadn’t already been deep enough, he twisted the knife, ensuring they remained raw and exposed.

I had already talked him out of pressing charges against my father, carefully calming him down and reassuring him until he let go of the idea. The last thing I wanted was to stir up his anger again or push him too far by making any more requests.

One morning I stepped outside to walk our dog and take out the trash, and there it was again. His car sitting there like an unspoken challenge. I sighed, too exhausted to react, too drained to care. It was just another slap in the face, another reminder of how little Cipher cared about the wreckage he left behind.

And then, the police car pulled up.

In Queens? Typical. I barely blinked. But then another pulled in behind the first, and before I could process what was happening, the officers stepped out, moving toward me with a slow, deliberate pace.

From the corner of my eye, I caught movement—my mother, across the street, my father just behind her. My heart pounded. I remember my mother’s face. The sadness carved into her features, the anger simmering just beneath, the silent devastation in her eyes.

My father? He just looked angry. Pure, unfiltered rage radiated from him, tightening his jaw, darkening his gaze.

I couldn’t look at them. I couldn’t bear it. I don’t think they could look at me either. It was all too painful. Too surreal.

As the officers neared, panic set in.

I don’t know about you, sis, but when it comes to the police… whew, I just don’t know. Something about them makes my spirit itch. Maybe it’s generational trauma. Maybe it’s just common sense. Either way, I could be doing absolutely nothing—just minding my business, breathing air—and still feel like I’m somehow guilty of a crime I didn’t commit. I’ve never been arrested, never been in trouble, never even been frisked, yet the sight of those uniforms? Instant anxiety. It’s like my soul just knows to be on high alert.

I wondered to myself… Were they here to put us out?

No. That wasn’t it.

One of the officers stopped by the trash can and looked at me.

“Are you Indonesia?” he asked. “Is that your car?” He gestured toward the black Mercedes in the driveway.

“Yes, I’m Indonesia,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But no, that’s not my car. It belongs to my fiancee. He’s downstairs.”

“Well,” the officer said, “it needs to be moved. The owner of the property said the car can not be parked there.”

Before I could respond, Cipher emerged from the shadows, paperwork from my hospital visit in hand. His presence as suffocating as ever.

“Is there a problem, officer?” he asked, his voice laced with mock concern.

“Yes,” the officer repeated. “The car needs to be moved. The owner of the property did not give you permission to park here.”

Cipher chuckled, shaking his head. “So, y’all came all the way out here over a car in a driveway? That’s what’s important?” His tone was sharp now, challenging. “What you really need to be investigating is what happened here a few days ago.”

The officer’s gaze hardened. “Excuse me, sir?”

Cipher turned to me, his eyes gleaming with something dark. Something calculated.

“That man—the landlord—he assaulted my fiancée a few days ago. And he’s supposed to be her father.”

My body locked up.

The officers looked stunned, confused almost.

The words slammed into me like a freight train, stealing the air from my lungs. A knot thickened in my throat. My ears started ringing. “No” I thought. This cant be f*cking happening!

Cipher kept going, his voice smooth, insidious. “Tell them,” he pressed, his tone a quiet demand. “Tell them what happened. Your father is abusive, and the police need to know. Either you tell them, or I will. I have the paperwork from the hospital right here!”

I barely heard him. My mind was too busy unraveling.

Across the street, my mother stood frozen, her face etched with silent devastation. My father’s fists were clenched, his expression cold and unyielding. The weight of their stare ignited something in my chest—rage, heartbreak, a feeling I couldn’t even name. In that moment, they didn’t look like the parents I had known. They looked like the enemy.

And if looks could kill? Sis, I wouldn’t just be dead—I’d be 12 feet under, cemented in, obituary already written dead.

Cipher’s words echoed in my head, growing louder, heavier.

And in that moment, standing there between Cipher and my parents, I realized— this was war. And I was in the middle of it.

The officer took the paperwork and got straight to the questions.

“Ma’am, what happened to you?”
“Is what your fiancé is saying true?”

Before I could even process what to say, Cipher jumped in, his voice smooth, calculated—like he had rehearsed this moment in his head.

“Officer, I’m only parked in the driveway because I have a baby, sir. This neighborhood isn’t the best, and I wasn’t planning on staying. I was just getting ready to take my baby and leave.” His tone was calm, almost humble—like he was the reasonable one in all of this. Like he was the victim.

“If it’s that big of a deal, I can move the car right now,” he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “No need to get physical or call the police over this.”

And as much as I hate to admit it, at that age, in that moment, a part of me agreed. First, my father put his hands on me, and now they called the cops on me? I was 19. I had a six-month-old baby, a toxic relationship, and I was drowning in postpartum depression. And yet, it felt like none of that mattered. No one was considering the bigger picture, the real weight of the situation.

This wasn’t about right or wrong anymore. It was a full-blown pissing contest—who could hurt who the most, who could inflict the deepest wound. It was sinful, pitiful, ridiculous, and childish on all ends.

Straight up, sis—everyone was out of their damn minds.

The officer turned to Cipher and said, “Yes, sir, please move the vehicle while we get to the bottom of all of this.” His tone was polite, almost deferential—calm, as if he agreed with him.

Let me take a moment give you a quick lesson…

Sis, a narcissist will have everyone fooled. People who don’t truly know them will find them charming, rational, level-headed. They’ll convince the world they are the calm in the storm—when in reality, they are the storm. I like to think of them as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. You know him, right? One moment, a picture of composure, and the next, a menace behind closed doors.

Ok, where was I? Oh, right… the officer turned back to me, his expression expectant.

“Ma’am, is this true? Are you okay? What happened here?”

I stood there—cold, frozen—silent for what felt like an eternity.

“Ma’am,” he prompted again, firmer this time. “I need to know what’s going on.”

Cipher returned from moving his car and positioned himself beside me. I’ll never forget what he said next.

“I know this is hard for you to talk about, but it’s going to be okay. Tell them what happened, babe. Tell the truth.”

And at that moment, I should have.

I should have told them everything—the whole truth. How my fiancé had been grooming me since I was sixteen. How he raped me after I gave birth to our daughter. How my parents were too wrapped up in their own marital chaos to see the warning signs.

Or maybe I should have told them about my father and me—how I know he loved me, how he was always a good dad as I was growing up—a provider, a leader. But how, sometimes, things got physical between us. And this wasn’t the first time.

We’re Caribbean; you know the saying: Spare the rod, spoil the child.

Maybe I should have told them that I was a teenage mother drowning in postpartum depression—waking up every day felt unbearable. That I hated the sound of my baby crying, hated the sensation of her latching onto my breast. But could I admit that? No. That would have been my one-way ticket to the psych ward.

So instead, I said what I knew Cipher wanted me to say.

I told them what happened. It was painful. It was humiliating. It was tormenting.

But the worst part? Watching the officer place my father in handcuffs.

Cipher’s reaction stung even more.

“That’s what happens when you fuck with my family,” he muttered, his voice laced with satisfaction. Then he turned to me, his expression softening. “I know you’re hurt, babe, but we’ll be gone soon. You’ll be in Florida, in your own home. Just me, you, and Baby A.”

The next few weeks were brutal. Prosecutors, lawyers—constant calls, relentless questions. My family had already started the process to evict us from the apartment, and my cousin was the one I had to face in court.

It was all so toxic. But given the circumstances I like to think I handled it well.

When it came time to testify against my dad, I moved strategically. I intentionally fumbled the dates, making sure Cipher wouldn’t realize we had missed the court appearance.

The charges were dismissed. And just like that, it was over.

As far as my family was concerned, the case was dismissed because my father had done no wrong. To them, I was the villain. I was the ungrateful oldest daughter. I was the traitor who had betrayed her family. I was the disrespectful child who had turned her back on her elders.

From 2015 to 2021, I barely heard from most of them. Only a few select relatives kept in touch.

Let me give you a glimpse into the future, sis—a little context to show you just how deep the estrangement ran. Most of my family never even knew I had moved to Florida. Most of them never even knew about my second pregnancy. But we’ll get back to that later.

The rest of my days in New York were spent in hiding. I was afraid to leave the house, terrified of running into my father or any other family members. Days blurred into months, and then—finally—it was time to go.

I remember the drive down like it was yesterday. The trunk of our car held nothing but clothes. Everything else was left behind. Everything. Even the crib my parents had bought for Baby A. That crib was my last tangible connection to them—a symbol of what they had lost: a daughter, a grandchild.

As we pulled away from my parents’ home, a storm of emotions churned inside me. Sadness. Anger. Unease. But beneath it all, there was something else.

Relief and freedom.

For so long, I had lived as a prisoner of shame. I glanced out the rear window. I watched the “Welcome to New York” sign shrink in the distance. I almost believed the past was behind me.

“Things are going to be different, babe,” Cipher said, his hand resting on my thigh. “Things are going to be better in Florida. I promise. Florida is what we deserve.” He turned to me, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite read. “Just think—you and Baby A on the beach, chilling, tanning. No more drama, no more pain. Don’t be sad. It’s their loss, not yours. They don’t deserve you. We do.”

The ride to Florida was soundtracked by my favorite playlist—EDM, chill house, electric lo-fi. The music settled my nerves, made the unknown seem less terrifying. Maybe this would be a fresh start. Maybe this was where I could finally escape all the heartbreak, all the turmoil, all the pain. No one would know me here. I could create a new version of myself, free from judgment.

And maybe—just maybe—the change of scenery would inspire Cipher to be a better man. Maybe he, too, would see this as a chance to paint a new picture, rewrite our story.

At this point, all I had was him and Baby A. I had no choice but to make the best of it.

I was grieving my family all over again. As I stared out the windshield at the road ahead I reminded myself that the past was behind me. It was fading in the rear view mirror.

I had to focus on what lay ahead—the possibilities, the chance to create a family of my own. Clinging to that hope was the only way I could make it through.

When we arrived in Florida and I saw our new place, I cried.

It was in a private community, with a lake view from our bedroom. Everything was brand new—stainless steel appliances, pristine counter-tops. For the first time in a long time, I felt like somebody.

Even though, deep down, I still felt like nobody.

Within 24 hours of settling in, I had a game plan. I had already lined up a few job interviews and was determined to carve out a successful life in my new town.

As we drove around looking for a Walmart to buy an air mattress, something caught my eye—an Applebee’s just up the road from our home.

PAUSE.

That should have been my sign. A warning. A clue that this was just going to be a repeat of my life with Cipher in New York. The irony was almost too much.

But I was trying to be optimistic.

Instead of seeing it as a bad omen, I told myself, Wow, maybe this job search will be easier than I thought.

I applied and got the job on the spot.

What I didn’t know then was that this job—and the people I met there—would become the key to my freedom. But we’ll get to that later.

I won’t pretend it didn’t feel good at first—like maybe, just maybe, my life was finally settling into something stable. The weeks bled into months, and I built a fragile sense of normalcy. A steady job. A small circle of friends from work. And most importantly, Cipher was happy.

He didn’t have to work. He had me exactly where he wanted—cut off, compliant, his. No one questioned his grip on me. No one saw the strings he pulled.

And me? I had become the perfect puppet, the quiet, obedient girl he had spent years grooming. But the more I played along, the more I felt something clawing at the edges of my carefully constructed facade. A crack forming. A pressure building.

And I knew—sooner or later—it was going to break.