The Woman at the Docks Read online Jessica Gadziala (Grassi Family #1)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Grassi Family Series by Jessica Gadziala
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Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
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"That is a nice fantasy, Romina," she'd told me, giving me a reassuring squeeze. "But we live in a not-so-nice reality. I'm sorry to say it. But it is true. We can't leave."

"But why?" I begged, my heart turning to dust in my chest.

"We have nowhere to go, mija," she told me, reaching up to stroke my hair.

"We can go back to your home." She'd told me about Venezuela all the time. About her family. About the food. About their way of life. It seemed clear to me that she missed it.

"No, we can't."

"Why not? Our family is there."

"It is not how it was anymore, Romina. There is unrest. There are many people snatched off the streets. We can't go back now. Someday, I hope."

She ended up staying with my father for another five years. Until I was old enough to understand his abuse, to get stubborn enough to fight against it.

I got between them many times, something that infuriated my father, but he stormed out, left her alone.

Until one day, he didn't back down. And he didn't care anymore that I was his daughter. Maybe because at that point, I started to look a lot like my mother.

He'd knocked out a tooth and given me a concussion.

It turned out that my mother was willing to endure his torment to give us what she thought of as a better life. But she found even more strength when his hands touched me.

She'd waited until he was asleep that night, lubricated by more beers than she usually kept in the house because alcohol made him mean before it made him finally pass out.

Then she quietly packed a bag, came into my room, instructed me to pack one as well, telling me what to put in it. Then she snuck over to Celenia's room, packing her bag for her, then pulling her out of bed.

We made our escape dressed in flannel pajama sets. I would always remember my sister exactly that way. With pastel mermaid printed pajamas, messy hair, and confused eyes, her school bag slung over her shoulder.

My mother didn't have a car of her own, and I recalled feeling my stomach twisted into painful knots as we walked down the street, eyes watching us as we went by with ducked heads, wanting to avoid trouble, all the while terrified my father would wake up, would come looking for us, drag us home.

We walked for long enough for Celenia to start whining about her aching legs. And I remember being annoyed with her for not understanding how important this was, even though I knew I had spent so much of my time shielding her from the ugly reality of what our father did to our mother, that she couldn't have known how dire it was, how much we needed to get away.

Eventually, we made it to the basement under a local dry cleaner, finding it set up as a makeshift home with about ten people already living there on cots or mattresses on the floor. There was a refrigerator and an old dresser with a hot plate situated on it.

There were two sets of single mothers there, each with two children, two middle-aged ladies, two elderly women, and two older men.

With the three of us, we were fifteen.

It wasn't like a family. It sounds like it should have been, all these people cramped together in a small space, all trying to save some money, build a better life for themselves.

But most everyone there worked two or three jobs, only dropping in to sleep, often grumbling about the noises of the younger children who didn't understand the seriousness of all our situations.

My mother had been one of those people working three jobs. A cleaning lady, a babysitter, and a yard worker.

And I finally realized, when I saw all the stacks of money she carefully hid away when no one else was home to see her, why she couldn't leave my father for all those years, why she felt she had nowhere to go.

Because while we had been born in the U.S., while we were legal, she wasn't. And she lived in fear every day of someone finding that out, of sending her back, leaving us to the mercy of our father.

Armed with this new knowledge, any remnants of my childhood slipped away, making me step into the shoes of mother to Celenia who had previously been making me angry with her complaints, with her demands to see our father.

I packed her lunch for school, cutting off the crusts of her sandwiches. I walked her to school. I ran from my school to hers after my classes let out, not wanting her to walk home alone in our neighborhood.

When Mom wasn't around, but the guys we lived with were lurking around, I made her throw on her shoes and go with me to the park, to a nicer neighborhood where we would window shop, to the movies if we scraped together enough money.


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