“Do you have your ‘go’ bag ready?” my therapist in Istanbul asked during our last session before I left my husband. For weeks, we had meticulously discussed what to include in it—what I could discreetly take from our home that my spouse wouldn’t notice, and the essentials my son and I would require in the challenging months ahead in our new, hidden residence.
Months prior, I had gathered passports, birth certificates, visas, and other critical documents and entrusted them to a reliable friend in Istanbul for safekeeping. While I cherished my expat life, departing from an abusive marriage in a foreign country presented its own set of challenges. My “go” bag contained photocopies of vital papers, cash I had secretly stashed away for weeks, some wedding jewelry, and changes of clothes for both my son and me, despite having already purchased some new attire to leave in our new apartment. Travel-size toiletries were also included. As my departure date neared, I roamed my house, picking up little trinkets, touching paintings, and patting furniture, bidding farewell to items I couldn’t take with me.
In therapy, we explored various scenarios. What if I told him I just wanted to leave? That I had taken a freelance job to fund my escape? The years had intensified our mutual anger, and each argument spiraled further out of control. I knew he would never let me go. Statistics confirmed my fears, and friends, my therapist, and my lawyer shared these numbers every time I doubted my decision. “80% of the women I work with return to their husbands at least once, if not more,” my lawyer revealed. A supportive friend informed me that, according to The National Domestic Violence Hotline, the average was seven times. I couldn’t afford to go back seven times. I couldn’t even survive a second attempt. Leaving had to be final.
“I’ve never had a woman tell me she felt too ‘safe,’” my therapist said when I questioned if I was overreacting, imagining the worst-case scenarios. A friend reminded me of the disturbing images I had sent her after my last confrontation with my husband. So, I took a freelance writing job without mentioning it to him, had my payments sent to an account he didn’t know about, and quietly began purchasing items to set up a new home. Towels, sheets, and more. I found a charming little flat just under two miles from our house and rented it on the spot. My departure was scheduled for three weeks before Christmas.
Thus began a new Advent countdown, during which I tried to maintain an appearance of normalcy, so my husband wouldn’t suspect my plans. I didn’t mention to my therapist that tucked in the trunk of my car, alongside my “go” bag, was our artificial Christmas tree and a box of ornaments. I decorated the house with other Christmas items, but the tree remained absent, and surprisingly, he didn’t question its disappearance.
The day I left unfolded as dramatically as anticipated. My five-year-old son huddled in his blanket in the car, listening as I spoke to the police, a spark in his eyes dimming that day and never returning. “I can help translate for you, Mommy,” he offered from the backseat as I fumbled with my Turkish words. The police recorded my call and offered to send an officer to patrol my new home that night. I expressed my gratitude and awaited direction from my lawyer.
“You are not to leave your new apartment; do not even breathe unless you hear from me,” my lawyer instructed over the phone, his tone reminiscent of a protective older brother. I concealed my bright red car in a nearby cemetery, my go-bag slung over my shoulder, the Christmas tree under one arm, and my heartbroken son holding my other hand.
The new apartment had a mattress from Ikea on the floor and my desktop computer loaded with a week’s worth of movies. The fridge was stocked, and the freezer was filled with meals I had prepared in advance. We had Uno, card games, books, and coloring supplies to keep us entertained. Aside from the Christmas tree, we owned nothing as we waited for the lawyers to maneuver the logistics. Would a restraining order be necessary? When would we secure a court order allowing me to retrieve my belongings? When would I be able to safely leave the flat for groceries or take my son to the park?
I hadn’t disclosed my new address to friends, following my lawyer and therapist’s advice. “You don’t really know who your friends are in this situation,” they warned. My lawyer later told me that during the first week, many women succumb to social and familial pressure to return to their spouses, and indeed, the phone calls I received reflected that.
As Christmas approached, the only thing preventing me from giving up was the memory of our last holiday together—the shattered dishes, the broken hearts, each of us wounded, me curled up next to my son in his bed. I vowed never to endure that again. I promised both of us that. I silenced my phone and only checked texts from my lawyer. I tucked my son in with his frayed blanket on our shared mattress, watching his lashes flutter in sleep.
The tree had seen better days, but it was the only decoration or piece of furniture we had. The top was crooked, so I improvised with a chopstick from a takeout container, taping it to hold it upright. It made the tree lean awkwardly when we placed the star on top, but it felt fitting. Okay, and still standing.
Every year, my son and I put up that tree, remembering friends and family who faded from our lives. Custody battles, alimony, moving back to the U.S.—new friends and relationships with family followed. We celebrated a fresh start. My ex-husband and I learned to co-parent amicably, transforming a tumultuous situation into a safe environment. With new partners and lives, we navigated our scars, always in the process of healing. We have all come a long way.
When people see my lopsided Christmas tree and tease the taped chopstick that holds it together, I simply smile. I don’t want a new tree; this one is just right for me.
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Summary:
In this personal account, Emma Thompson recounts her harrowing journey of escaping an abusive marriage while living in Istanbul. With the help of a therapist, she meticulously planned her departure, creating a ‘go’ bag with essential items and stashing important documents with a trusted friend. As the Christmas season approached, she concealed her preparations and focused on ensuring her son’s safety. Ultimately, she left her husband, maneuvering through the complexities of co-parenting and healing. This story highlights the resilience needed to break free from a harmful relationship, with a poignant reminder of the ongoing journey of recovery.