A six-year-old boy proposed to me while I was hiding from the men my stepmother had sent to collect me like property

Six months passed.

Winter arrived with a brutal, freezing vengeance, blanketing the tiny coastal town of Camden, Maine, in two feet of powdery white snow.

I had rented a small cedar-shingle cottage near the harbor, using the modest settlement my father’s police pension had finally released after Regina’s conviction. I took a job teaching art and reading at the local elementary school, spending my mornings listening to children laugh and my evenings watching the gray Atlantic waves crash against the rocky bluffs.

It was quiet. It was safe.

It was completely empty.

Every night, I sat by the cast-iron woodstove with a cup of tea, staring at the small gold chain around my neck. Hanging from it was the key to my father’s locker, which Michael had returned to me the morning I left, along with a simple, handwritten note:

Whenever you're ready to stop running, my promise stands.

I hadn't heard his voice in half a year. I didn't search his name on the internet. I didn't read the papers. I was terrified of what I might find—a headline announcing his arrest, or worse, a gangland hit on the streets of Manhattan.

One Tuesday afternoon, a blizzard rolled in off the bay, shutting down the school early.

I walked home through the swirling snow, pulling my heavy woolen scarf up over my chin, my boots crunching against the fresh powder. The wind was howling through the pines, whipping icy flakes against my eyelashes.

As I rounded the bend toward my cottage, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Parked in the snow-dusted gravel driveway was a sleek, black armored SUV with New York plates.

My heart vaulted into my throat. The breath caught in my chest.

Standing on the wooden porch of my cottage, bundled in a red down parka with a matching pom-pom hat, was a seven-year-old boy trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

“Zach?” I gasped, dropping my canvas tote bag into the snow.

The boy turned. His face lit up with a grin that could melt an iceberg.

“Miss Aurora!” he yelled, bounding down the porch stairs and launching himself into my arms.

I dropped to my knees in the snow, catching him, burying my face in his coat as tears of pure, overwhelming joy spilled down my cheeks. “Zach! What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“Dad said a husband always finds his wife,” Zach said with a giggle, pulling back to look at me. “And my lungs are better! See? I ran all the way down the steps and didn't even cough!”

My chest hitched with laughter and sobs at the same time.