Page 197 of This Life of Mine

Of all the places. Of all the times. My father didn’t just find me. He found me…

Here.

And whatever illusion of peace I’d built over the last seven months cracks enough to remind me—the past never stays buried.

Chapter sixty

Lina

I’m in the kitchen, humming as I knead cinnamon roll dough.

It’s been seven months.

My body doesn’t flinch the way it used to. Quiet exists now without setting off alarms. I don’t scan for someone lurking around the corner with a gun. I don’t have to anymore. Alex is with me.

Living with Alex didn’t overwhelm me the way I thought it might. At least over time it didn’t.

What overwhelmed me was realizing how unprepared I was for something healthy.

I didn’t know how to act once I wasn’t being watched—or completely alone.

For years, closeness meant control. Every choice questioned. Every movement accounted for. And when I escaped that, I swung hard in the opposite direction. Five years of absolute freedom. No explanations. No one close enough to interfere.

The first couple of those years were pure rebellion.

Fun for the sake of fun. Dating because I could. Going out because I wanted to. Sayingfuck you—out loud and unapologetically—to anyone who thought they had a right to an opinion on how quickly I moved on, or how loudly I lived. I didn’t owe grace to people who hadn’t lived inside my skin.

Some of them were strangers. Some of them were people I knew. People who watched me survive and still thought they got to judge the timeline of my joy. I didn’t explain myself. I didn’t soften it. I laughed harder, dressed bolder, lived louder to prove that I could.

It wasn’t irresponsible. It was reclamation.

Every date, every late night, every choice made without asking permission was me proving to myself that my life was mine again. That my body was mine. That my time was mine. That pleasure didn’t have to be earned through suffering.

And eventually, the edge softened.

I didn’t regret any of it. I just didn’t need the armor anymore.

So when Alex moved into my space—steady, present, unapologetically there—I didn’t have a plan. I caught myself cycling between two instincts. Either doubting myself, waiting for criticism that never came…or bristling, defensive, ready to remind the world that my life was mine.

Neither resembled me anymore. But both felt familiar.

The shift didn’t happen all at once.

It showed up in small, ordinary moments. The way I’d struggle with something instead of asking for help. Holding everything together out of habit more than necessity. Alex never made a show of stepping in. He didn’t announce it. He just…did. Like help was normal. Like it didn’t cost me anything.

That took time to trust.

What surprised me most was his patience.

He didn’t rush me through the awkward parts. Didn’t crowd my space when I pulled back. Didn’t take offense when I neededroom or reacted too sharply. He seemed to understand that my reactions weren’t about him—they wereresidue.

I didn’t see how much I needed someone who wouldn’t force me to choose between independence and isolation.

Little by little, I stopped bracing.

I stopped asking permission for things that were already mine. Stopped scanning his face for reactions. Stopped changing my clothes because being seen felt risky. Alex looks at me like I’m something he admires, not something he needs to manage. He makes space for me to be confident, visible, unapologetic.

Even my moods—something I’d learned to hide—stopped being liabilities.