Page 58 of Beautifully Broken

My blood runs cold. The sounds of the airport fade into background noise as that familiar, frightening feeling washes over me. The walls feel like they're closing in, and I can't breathe .

"The police think she might have been taken," the woman continues, her voice seeming to come from very far away, "by someone who was watching the airport."

Taken.

The word slams into me like a physical blow, and suddenly I'm drowning in the memories I've worked so hard to keep buried. My chest tightens, and the Greek sunshine streaming through the windows feels suffocating.

"Sasha?"

Someone calls my name, but I can't respond. My chest is tight, and I can't seem to get enough air. The airport spins around me, and I'm back there again — eighteen, terrified, helpless. I hear myself making a small, choked sound.

"Sasha, look at me."

Strong hands cup my face, and I find myself staring into familiar green eyes. Nonno. He's crouched in front of me, his expression calm but concerned. When did I sit down? I'm on the floor, my back against someone's legs.

"That's it, tesoro," Nonno says softly. "Focus on me. You're safe."

"I can't—" I gasp, my hands clawing at my chest. "I can't breathe. That girl... she's gone, just like—"

"Yes, you can breathe," he says firmly. "In through your nose. Hold it. Out through your mouth. With me now."

I try to follow his instructions, but my lungs feel like they're filled with concrete. The present and past blur together in my mind; another girl, another disappearance, another family destroyed. Likely not by a crazy, obsessed ex, and likely alone, but still…

"She's having a panic attack," I hear Daddy say from somewhere above me. "We need to get her somewhere quiet."

"There's a family area near the restrooms," Uncle Tony's voice, rough with worry. "I'll clear the way."

I feel myself being lifted, strong arms supporting me as we move through the airport. The sounds and smells fade as we enter a smaller, quieter space. Someone guides me to a chair, and I realize Daddy is behind me, his arms wrapped around me from behind.

"I've got you," he murmurs against my ear. "You're safe, sweetheart. We're here. "

"It's happening again," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "Eight years later and I'm still falling apart because of that fucker."

The shame of it burns in my chest almost as much as the panic.

These three know about Trevor, about what happened to Tessa.

We've talked about it in therapy sessions, late-night conversations, quiet moments when the memories resurface.

They know my history, they saved me, but somehow that makes this worse. I should be past this by now.

"Hey," Uncle Tony says, kneeling beside my chair. His usually gruff voice is impossibly gentle. "Don't do that. Don't beat yourself up for having a normal reaction to trauma."

"Normal?" I laugh bitterly, tears streaming down my face. "It's been eight years, Uncle Tony. Eight years since Trevor, and I still can't hear about someone being taken without completely losing it. How is that normal?"

"Because trauma doesn't follow a timeline," Nonno says quietly, his hands still steady on my face. "Your brain is trying to protect you the only way it knows how."

"By making me fall apart in airports?" I shake my head, frustrated with myself. "I'm supposed to be stronger than this. I've done the therapy, I've processed it, I've moved on. Why is this happening to me now?"

Daddy's arms tighten around me. "Sweetheart, healing isn't linear. You know that. You've told me that when I have bad days about the divorce."

"That's different," I protest weakly.

"How is it different?" he asks gently.

I don't have an answer for that, because it's not. But my trauma feels bigger, messier, more shameful than anything else.

"That girl out there," I whisper, nodding toward the main terminal. "Her father looked so scared. So desperate. And all I could think about was Tessa's parents at the funeral once they found her body, how they looked at me like they wondered why I got to come home and she didn't."

"Did they actually look at you that way?" Nonno asks softly. "Or is that guilt talking?"

I close my eyes, trying to remember. The truth is, Tessa’s parents had been nothing but kind to me, even in their grief.

And they didn’t know I was the reason their daughter got her neck snapped in an abandoned crackhouse on the South Side of Chicago the summer before she was going to leave for college.

Trevor was my ex. And he used her to lure me to that house.

I should be dead, not her.

"Guilt," I admit quietly. "It's always guilt talking."

"And what do we know about survivor's guilt?" Daddy prompts gently.

"That it's normal but irrational," I recite, the words familiar from countless therapy sessions. "That I survived, and honoring that means living fully, not drowning in shame."

"But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two different things," Uncle Tony adds, understanding. "Tesoro, you can know all the right answers and still have your body react to potential triggers. That doesn't make you weak or broken."

"It makes me feel broken," I say, leaning back against Daddy's solid warmth. "Especially when it happens like this, out of nowhere. We were having such a perfect day, then..."

"You heard about someone else's nightmare and your body remembered your own," Nonno says simply. "That's not broken, piccolina. That's human."

"I hate that it still has this power over me," I whisper. "I hate that Trevor can still reach through time and ruin moments like this."

"He hasn't ruined anything," Daddy says firmly. "You're here, you're breathing, you're surrounded by people who love you. You felt something awful, but you're working through it. That's not him winning, that's you surviving."

I take a shaky breath, the truth of his words slowly penetrating the fog of panic and self-recrimination. The worst of the attack is passing, leaving me drained but clearer.

"I keep thinking about her," I say, my voice steadier now. "That girl. Wondering if she's scared, if someone's looking for her, if she has friends who are going to blame themselves for not protecting her."

"The police are looking for her," Uncle Tony says gently. "And her father seemed to have people with him. Just like with us coming for you, she is not alone."

"I know. Logically, I know that. But trauma brain doesn't do logic very well. "

"No, it doesn't," Nonno agrees. "But that's why you have us. To be your logic when your brain gets hijacked by old fears."

I look around at the three of them; Daddy still holding me, Uncle Tony kneeling beside us with worry etched in his rough features, Nonno's steady presence anchoring me to the present. They're not looking at me with pity or impatience, just love and concern.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "For falling apart on our first day of vacation. For making everything about me when there's a real woman out there who's missing."

“No, please. We are here for you. We know everything you went through was … well, it could have killed you,” Nonno says.

“That real woman reminds you that you were a real woman, too, when all this happened,” Daddy adds.

“Just tell us what you need from us,” Uncle Tony says as he strokes my hair.

"Right now I need you to be patient with me while I remember how to breathe normally," I say, taking another deep breath. The panic is receding, leaving behind the familiar exhaustion that follows these episodes.

"We have all the time in the world," Daddy murmurs against my hair. "No rush, no pressure."

"How are you feeling now?" Nonno asks.

"Shaky," I admit. "Embarrassed. Tired. But better." I squeeze Daddy's hand. "Thank you. All of you. For not making me feel crazy or weak."

"You're neither of those things," Uncle Tony says firmly. "You're a survivor who occasionally gets ambushed by old ghosts. There's a difference."

"A big difference," Nonno agrees. "And the fact that you can recognize what's happening, talk through it, and come back to yourself shows how much healing you've done. Eight years ago, would you have been able to do that?"

I think about it honestly. Eight years ago, I would have locked myself in a bathroom stall and had a complete breakdown alone, too ashamed to let anyone see me fall apart.

"No," I say quietly. "Eight years ago, I would have pretended I was fine, then spent the next week having nightmares."

"So this is actually progress," Daddy points out. "Messy, difficult progress, but progress nonetheless."

"I hate that this is what progress looks like," I say, but there's less venom in it now.

"Sometimes progress looks like falling apart safely instead of falling apart alone," Nonno says. "Sometimes it looks like trusting the people who love you to catch you when you stumble."

"And sometimes," Uncle Tony adds with a grin, "it looks like ugly crying in an airport family room while your men tell you how amazing you are."

That gets a real laugh out of me, surprising us all. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, but I made you laugh," he says proudly. "That's progress too."

"It is," Uncle Tony says firmly. "And not just because that bastard is six feet under. You're safe because you're not alone. You have us, and we'll never let anyone hurt you again."

The certainty in his voice, echoed in Daddy's arms around me and Nonno's steady presence, starts to penetrate the fog of panic. Slowly, gradually, my breathing begins to even out.

I lean into Daddy's embrace, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my back. Uncle Tony's hand is still covering ours, his presence a comforting anchor. Nonno watches us with those wise green eyes, and I see nothing but love and acceptance there.

"I love you," I whisper, the words encompassing all three of them. "I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes."

"Good," Uncle Tony says with a grin. "Love should be a little terrifying. Means it matters."