The Escape That Almost Was: A Story of Strength, Manipulation, and the Power of Clarity

There was a moment when I almost escaped. A moment when I saw the truth so clearly that I did the only thing I could—I ran.

After the strangulation, after sitting in the doctor’s office, after feeling the weight of what had just happened, something in me finally snapped. I couldn’t stay. I wouldn’t stay.

So, I got into my car and drove.

Twelve hours, non-stop. Through exhaustion, through fear, through the Channel Tunnel, across the miles to my brother’s house. It was 3:00 AM when I finally arrived, my body and mind running on nothing but adrenaline.

I remember looking up at his window as he peered down at me in the dim glow of the streetlight.

“Linda, is that you? I thought you were the milkman!”

Even in that moment, I laughed. Because that was my brother—protective, strong, and always with a sharp sense of humor. But when I stepped inside, when I told him what had happened, the laughter faded. His face darkened, his fists clenched, and I could see his heartbreak.

“I want to go to France and kill him.”

I knew he meant it. My brother had always been my protector, the one who looked out for me since we were young. And he was devastated—furious—that someone could hurt me like that.

Then he said something I hadn’t expected, though in hindsight, I should have.

“I never liked him. Not for one second.”

He saw it all. The misery, the miserly nature, the unsociable coldness, the way he made people feel unwelcome and uncomfortable. My brother had spent years wondering why I stayed, why someone like me—outgoing, hardworking, full of life—had ended up isolated in a place that was so unlike me.

And the biggest shock to everyone? My move to France.

“Why would you—of all people—move to an isolated area? It made no sense.”

And he was right. It made no sense. But when you’re trapped in an abusive relationship, when manipulation becomes your daily reality, you don’t see the signs the way outsiders do. What looks incomprehensible to others becomes your normal. And slowly, without realizing it, you become a shadow of the person you once were.

But my brother was bigger than him mentally. He didn’t interfere. He didn’t force me to see what I wasn’t ready to. He stood back and let me work it out for myself, trusting that one day, I would.

And I nearly did.

The plan was to go to Australia, to my daughter, to start a new life. To finally escape.

But it wasn’t to be.

Because one week later, he came for me.

He got on a plane, flew to the UK, and begged me to come back. He pleaded. He cried. He swore, once again, that he would change. That he would get help. That he couldn’t live without me.

And I believed him.

Because I wanted to believe him. Because it’s easier to believe that things will get better than to accept that they never will.

So I went back.

And the rest is history.

False promises. More years of control. More years of abuse.

But that was then. And this is now.

Now, I have escaped. Now, I see the truth and I’m not looking back. Now, I know that I deserved freedom all along.

And now, when I move forward, it will be on my terms—never again dictated by someone else’s lies.