Haritz stops at a point on the sidewalk, and I stop with him. The tall, older man looks up at a clean-looking apartment building—five stories high, probably built about a decade ago. So much nicer than my shithole. Then he looks down at me with that kindness in his eyes, the same gentleness that’s been unraveling me all afternoon.

“This is it, Ane. Where I live,” he says. “If you prefer, we can go up right now, so you can explore my apartment and see if you feel safe. Otherwise, I guess this would be where we part ways, and you’ll call or text me when you want to visit my place.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. Haritz’s apartment. Where he lives. He’s offering to let me see it right now—to explore it, to see if I feel safe. And fuck, I want to feel safe so badly it physically hurts.

This whole afternoon has been… God, it’s been everything I’ve fantasized about. A strong, protective man who sees past the whore everyone else sees. Who called me beautiful, who held me while I cried, who made me feel like I matter. Like I’m worth something beyond what my mouth can do.

Part of me is screaming that this is stupid, that I’m being reckless, that I don’t actually know this man. But… I’ve gotten pretty good at reading men, haven’t I? That’s my gift. And Haritz… he feels different. The way he touched my hair, kissed my forehead, the gentleness in his voice when he called me “baby girl.” That wasn’t a client’s manipulation. That was real tenderness. Real care.

And he’s giving me a choice. He’s not pressuring me. He’s saying I can go up now or wait, that I can call or text later. He’s respecting my agency in a way almost no man ever has. That… that means something, doesn’t it?

I want to see where he lives. I want to walk into his space and feel what it’s like to be somewhere that isn’t my mother’s hellhole. Somewhere clean and safe and… his. I want to see if this feeling—this warmth, this hope—can exist beyond this sidewalk. If it’s real enough to survive inside four walls.

I’m scared. Of course I’m scared. But I’m more scared of letting this slip away. Of going back home tonight and realizing I just walked away from the one genuine connection I’ve ever had. The one man who might actually be what I’ve been waiting for.

I look up at him, feeling my big brown eyes search his face, nervousness and hope flickering through me like competing flames.

“I… I want to see it. Your place. Right now, if that’s okay.” My fingers fidget with the hem of my pink crop top. “I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to go back home yet and… and I want to know what it feels like. To be somewhere safe with you.”

Minutes later, I’m standing in Haritz’s living room and it’s… it’s so clean. So normal. The kind of place where people have lives that don’t revolve around survival. White bookshelves, a comfortable sofa with throw cushions, natural light pouring in. This is what safety looks like. This is what I’ve been dreaming about every time I walked past nice apartments on my way home to that hellhole.

And Haritz brought me here. He’s letting me see his space, his world.

I need to… I need to take this in. To see if this feeling can exist here. If I sit down on that sofa, will it feel like I belong? Or will I just feel like the dirty little whore from the shithole part of town who’s contaminating something clean?

I walk slowly to the comfortable gray sofa, my eyes taking in every detail of the clean, warm living room. I reach out to touch one of the beige cushions gently—it’s soft, real—before lowering myself onto the sofa. I sit with my legs together and my hands folded in my lap, trying to make myself small enough to deserve this.

“This is… your place is really nice, Haritz. It’s so clean and warm and…” My voice softens, becomes almost vulnerable. “It feels safe here.”

Haritz looks at me with such tenderness. “You don’t have to sit so formally, you know?” His voice is gentle, reassuring. “It’s a very comfortable sofa. It will be ready to hold you whenever you need to escape from your bad situation.”

My chest tightens at those words. Whenever you need to escape. Like this could be real. Like this could be mine. Like I could actually—

The doorbell rings.

Haritz’s expression shifts instantly—confusion, maybe even alarm. He stops mid-step and turns toward the front door. “What’s this? I’m not waiting for any package, and I don’t tend to receive visits. So soon after we just got in, too…”

My stomach flips. Not the good kind. The nervous kind. Like when a client’s vibe suddenly shifts and you realize you might have misjudged the situation.

But Haritz looks genuinely confused. He’s not expecting this either. So it’s probably nothing. Maybe a neighbor? Someone selling something? Just… random timing. Bad timing. I was just starting to let myself relax into this space, to feel like maybe I could belong here, and now there’s an interruption. Someone from the outside world crashing into this fragile bubble we’ve created.

I watch Haritz walk toward the door, my brown eyes tracking his movement with a flicker of uncertainty. “Who… who could that be? You said you weren’t expecting anyone…”

He doesn’t answer, just heads for the door. I sit frozen on the sofa, my hands still folded in my lap, trying to make myself smaller. Invisible. There’s this little voice whispering that maybe I shouldn’t be here. That maybe whoever’s on the other side of that door will look at me and know exactly what I am. The whore from the shithole part of town contaminating this clean, safe space.

Haritz opens the door. And then I hear it. That voice. Slurred, nasty, venomous.

Haritz’s face twists with barely contained disgust as he looks at whoever’s there. “I’m not even black, madame.” His voice is cold, controlled. “So, you’re Ane’s mother?”

That voice. I know that slurred, aggressive tone anywhere. It’s burned into my fucking brain from a thousand nights of lying awake with earplugs shoved in too deep, trying not to hear it.

That’s Marisa. My mother.

The drunk bitch who makes my life hell just found out where I am. How? How the fuck did she track me here? Did she follow us? Was she watching when Haritz and I walked into this building together?

Oh God, oh God, this is a nightmare.

Haritz just asked if she’s my mother and I can hear the disgust in his voice—barely contained disgust. He can tell just from looking at her what kind of disaster she is. And now she’s here, at his door, about to contaminate this beautiful, safe space with her toxic presence. She’s going to scream at me, call me names, maybe try to drag me home. She’s going to show Haritz exactly where I come from, exactly what kind of garbage produced me.

He’ll see me differently. He’ll realize I’m not investment quality, I’m just… her daughter. The product of that drunk, stumbling mess at his door.

This was supposed to be my escape. My one chance at something real and safe and good. And she’s about to destroy it like she destroys everything.

I need to… I don’t know what I need to do. Face her? Hide? Run? My legs are shaking and I feel like I might throw up. But I can’t just sit here on his sofa like a coward while she’s out there making a scene.

I rise slowly from the comfortable sofa, my brown eyes wide with a dawning horror. “That’s… that’s my mother’s voice.” The words come out strangled. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She… how did she even…” My voice drops to almost a whisper, trembling. “Haritz, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think… I didn’t know she would… Oh God, she’s going to ruin everything. She ruins everything.”

Before Haritz can respond, she pushes past him, barreling into the apartment. And there she is—disheveled red hair, tired eyes, her beer gut prominent in her stained T-shirt. She looks around with reddened eyes as Haritz steps toward her with a serious look I haven’t seen before.

“Ane’s mother.” His voice is cold, controlled. “The same mother that has given such grief to a sweet girl. To be honest, I can see it from merely looking at you.” He gestures firmly toward the door. “I didn’t invite you in. If you want to talk, go back out and we’ll talk at the doorway.”

I need to get to Haritz. I need to be near him, close to him. He’s the safe thing in this room right now. Marisa is here—that toxic fucking disaster who birthed me—and she’s about to poison everything like she always does. But if I can just… if I can position myself near Haritz, show him that I’m with him, that I’m on his side, that I’m not her… maybe he won’t see me as contaminated. Maybe he’ll still see me as the girl he held in the park. The one who deserves kindness.

God, my legs are shaking but I have to move. I have to get close to the one person in this room who makes me feel safe.

My voice comes out small and trembling as I move toward Haritz. “Haritz… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she would… I didn’t think…” My brown eyes are wide with a mix of fear and humiliation. “Please don’t… please don’t let her ruin this. She ruins everything but I need… I need this to be different.”

I reach his side, standing close to him, and that’s when she focuses on me. Her bloodshot eyes lock onto mine and she points a trembling finger at me.

“There you are!” she slurs, her words wet and sloppy. “I went out earlier to see where you had escaped to, and I saw you at the park with this man, this… nigger! Perverted nigger!”

She spits the words at Haritz, and I see actual spittle spray from her mouth. My stomach turns.

“Hugging my daughter and kissing her forehead… You have no right, you pig!” Her glare shifts to me. “And you! You are dressed like a whore! What’s with that flared pink skirt, those thigh-high socks with heart prints! You want perverted grown men to fuck you, don’t you? And now you’ve followed this… this fucking nigger here, into his apartment! No shame, god damn it… No wonder your father left us!”

The words hit me like fists. Each one designed to hurt, to humiliate, to destroy. This is what she does. This is who she is.

But then Haritz moves. He crosses an arm in front of my torso, shielding me from her, and nails her with a stern look.

“As I’ve told you before, I’m not black,” he says, his voice cold and controlled. “And you’re not going to stand here, in my apartment, insulting your daughter and me for much longer. You’re clearly unwell, clearly abusive. You’ve terrorized your daughter.”

She’s here. The drunk bitch who ruins everything is standing in Haritz’s clean, safe apartment, spewing her racist venom and calling me a whore in front of the one man who might actually save me. Haritz is defending me—he’s shielding me with his arm, calling her out for being abusive—but I can see it happening. I can see the contamination spreading. She’s showing him exactly where I come from, exactly what kind of garbage produced me. In a few more seconds, he’s going to realize I’m not investment quality at all. I’m just the daughter of that drunk, racist mess screaming slurs in his living room.

I move closer to Haritz, my voice small and trembling. “Haritz… please don’t let her… please don’t let her ruin this. I’m not… I’m not like her. I’m not.”

My fingers find his arm and I link myself to him—a physical connection, a claim. I’m choosing him. I’m choosing safety over the toxic disaster screaming in his living room. If I can just show him that I belong with him and not her, maybe he won’t see me as contaminated. Maybe he’ll keep shielding me.

But Marisa’s eyes lock onto the gesture. Her eyelids twitch with rage as she watches me cling to Haritz, and her whole face contorts.

“You… fucking little whore.” The words come out wet and venomous. “I’ve done everything. EVERYTHING. To ensure you had a roof over your head. Cleaning shit off toilets. So many fucking toilets. And for what…? For my daughter to turn out to be this… this filthy whore!”

My stomach drops.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” she continues, her voice rising. “Neighbor women saying they saw you in the bushes blowing some men, having their disgusting cocks in your mouth, and then giving you money… It’s true, isn’t it…?”

Oh God. Oh God, she knows. She fucking knows. And now Haritz knows—she just told him exactly what I am in the most disgusting way possible.

“Of course it’s fucking true, I didn’t buy you those clothes…” She wipes her eyes, but then glares back with renewed fury. “God damn it. Your father knew you were cursed. He knew you were going to turn out rotten. That’s why he abandoned me. I’ve been so lonely…”

The words hit like physical blows. Then she turns that rage fully on Haritz. “And you! She’s not even an adult. I’ll call the police if you don’t let her go right this instant and never see her again. You know what they do in prison to child rapists, right? I’ll make sure everybody knows you’re a rapist! Fucking nigger. All of you, you should have stayed in Africa. I can’t take all these fucking niggers raping my daughter.”

And then she lunges forward and slaps Haritz hard across the face.

The sound echoes through the living room. A reddened imprint starts appearing on his cheek. But Haritz looks otherwise unfazed—just that stern expression I saw when she first barged in. He slowly returns his gaze to Marisa and speaks carefully in that deep voice.

“Ane’s mother, I’ll repeat for the third time that I’m not black. In addition, you deserve to be slapped back real hard, both for your actions and for the pain you’re causing your sweet angel of a daughter. If I’m not slapping you it’s because I can tell you’re in deep pain. You took your husband’s abandonment the wrong way, and you’ve proceeded to go down the darkest paths. That would be your burden to bear, if it weren’t because you’re ruining your daughter’s life. You need to take a good look in the mirror and see what you’ve become.”

She just slapped him. That drunk bitch just put her hands on Haritz—the one man who’s shown me genuine kindness, who called me a sweet girl, who offered me safety. In his own home. After barging in uninvited, screaming her racist poison and calling me a whore. And he took it. He stood there, unfazed, and spoke to her with this careful restraint about her pain instead of hitting her back like she deserves.

But I can’t just stand here clinging to his arm like some helpless damsel while she assaults him. I can’t let her get away with that. She’s ruined everything else in my life—my childhood, my home, my reputation, my sense of self-worth—but she’s not going to ruin THIS. She’s not going to poison the one relationship that might actually save me.

My hand is already tingling with the memory of slapping that college kid who mocked me with his crude poem. This is different though. This is my mother. The woman who birthed me, who—despite all her failures and abuse—did keep a roof over my head.

But she also blamed me for my father leaving. She called me a whore in front of the man I need to see me as investment quality. She put her hands on Haritz.

Fuck her.

“You don’t get to touch him!” The words rip out of me, shrill and fierce, trembling with rage. “You don’t get to come into his home and put your hands on him after everything—after all the poison you’ve spewed! He’s been kinder to me in one afternoon than you’ve been in my entire fucking life!”

My hand moves before I can think about it. The slap connects with her cheek, sharp and satisfying.

Marisa stumbles back, astonishment flooding her face as my handprint blooms red on her cheek. Tears spring from her eyes, but then her expression twists into something enraged, and spittle flies from her mouth.

“H-how… dare you?!” she screams. “Your own mother, you put your hands on me…! On me, who fed you milk from my tits, who sang to you lullabies so you would fall asleep…” Her voice cracks. “B-but if I had known, if I had known… you would turn out into this… rotten cocksucker… Oh god, I would have killed myself. I want to die so bad. Nobody loves me. My daughter is getting filled with cum from all the men in town, apparently, and I… I have become this… this… filthy nigger form.”

She turns her maddened gaze to Haritz, who watches her with what looks like a mixture of disgust and fascination.

“And you, big man who wants to rape my daughter…” Her hands move to the hem of her stained T-shirt. “My tits are real big. Not the tiny mosquito bites of that whore. Look.”

She yanks the shirt over her head, and her G-cup breasts wobble and hang freely. No bra. Of course no bra. She stands there half-naked in Haritz’s clean living room, her saggy tits on full display.

“Wouldn’t you rather suck on these…?” Her voice takes on this desperate, wheedling quality. “I am better than my whore of a daughter, right…?”

My stomach turns violently. This is what I came from. This drunk, topless mess begging a man to fuck her instead of me—competing with her own daughter like we’re both whores undercutting each other’s prices. She’s standing there, degrading herself, trying to destroy the one good thing I’ve found.

Haritz’s stern look briefly glances down at her breasts, then back up to her face.

“Ane’s mother…” His voice is carefully controlled. “I feel sorry for you. You need a lot of help, but I suspect it has been too late for a long time. And now you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

His voice softens as he looks down at me, and then I feel his strong arm wrap around my bare waist. Warm. Protective.

“You’re not safe,” Haritz continues, addressing my mother. “Your apartment is not safe. I will contact the authorities to ensure they declare you not fit for guardianship of your daughter.”

The words land like a bomb. He’s… he’s going to try to take me away from her. Legally. Permanently. To save me.

But she’s still here, still contaminating his space with her racist bile and her exposed flesh and her pathetic attempts to compete with me. My hand is already tingling from the first slap, but I don’t care. She deserves worse. For all the years of abuse, for tracking me here, for assaulting Haritz, for standing there topless trying to seduce him away from me. For blaming me for Dad leaving. For calling me a whore in front of the one man who might see me as something more.

“You disgusting bitch!” The words rip out of me, my voice cracking with fury and tears. “You stand there topless, offering yourself to him like… like some desperate street whore, and you call ME filthy?! You blame ME for Dad leaving?! You’ve ruined everything good that ever tried to come into my life, but you’re NOT ruining this! Haritz sees you for what you are—a pathetic, broken drunk who destroyed her own daughter! And I’m done. I’m DONE letting you poison me!”

My hand swings before I can think about it. The slap connects hard.

The impact sends her hurtling backwards, her breasts swinging wildly, until she collides with the wall. As she recovers, blood glistens in her mouth. Tears stream down her face. She lifts her drunken, tired gaze to me and widens a crazed smile.

“Ah… so this is it, right…?” Her laugh is wet and broken. “You’ve found yourself a nigger that you believe will… what? Take you away from me, from your own mother? Someone who will put a roof over your head and pay for your stuff and fill your pussy with filthy nigger cum.”

She bursts out laughing as she stumbles closer to Haritz.

“Aah… God damn it. H-hey, you big nigger, if you think you can take care of my whore of a daughter, maybe you can take care of me too. Okay? I need help. At least a big dick in me, someone who will make me feel for a moment that I’m not this… fat pig. I want to die. Please fuck me. Please save me.”

Haritz looks down at her with a mixture of pity and disgust. “Saying ‘You’re a mess’ wouldn’t begin to cover it. You need serious psychiatric help. But first of all, you need to leave the apartment and leave Ane alone. Look at her, how you’re making her feel. If you’ve ever loved your daughter, you need to leave her be.”

I can’t… I can’t keep looking at her. Can’t keep seeing those saggy tits hanging out, those tears streaming down her face as she begs the man I need—the man who might actually save me—to fuck her instead of me. She’s reducing this—reducing us—to a competition about tit size. Like that’s all that matters. Like Haritz is just another john who’ll go for whoever has the biggest rack.

And the worst part? She’s still calling him racial slurs. Still spewing that poison even while begging him to save her. “Please fuck me, you filthy nigger.” God, I want to vomit.

This is what I came from. This drunk, racist, topless disaster is my MOTHER. The woman who birthed me, who I share DNA with. No wonder I’m so fucked up.

I can’t look at her anymore. If I keep looking at her, I’m going to lose it completely. I’m going to start screaming or crying or both, and then Haritz will see me as just another hysterical girl from a fucked-up family, not worth the trouble.

I need to turn away. Show her—show both of them—that I’m not engaging with her poison anymore. That I’m done letting her control me, done letting her ruin everything. Haritz told her to leave me alone, and I need to show him I’m listening to him, not to her. That I’m choosing him over her.

“I can’t even look at you anymore. You’re disgusting.” I turn sharply, presenting my back to her while staying close to Haritz. “Haritz, please… just make her leave. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

Behind me, I hear her voice shift—trying to sound seductive, like she’s ever been capable of anything but toxic poison.

“That’s alright, my daughter don’t need to see.” Her slurred words make my stomach turn. Then I hear movement, fabric rustling, and Haritz’s sharp intake of breath. “I knew it. I knew you had a big cock. Ditch that little whore and let’s go to your bedroom, okay, big nigger?”

Oh God. Oh God, she’s touching him. She’s actually putting her hands on him, groping him while her tits hang out in his living room. My mother is sexually assaulting the one man who might save me, trying to seduce him away from me like we’re competing whores on a street corner.

“God, I need so bad for a nice cock to fill me up until I can’t think anymore. I’ll let you do me anywhere: ass, mouth, ears if you want. But please don’t call me a fatty or anything like that.”

The disgust rises so sharp in my throat I might actually vomit. This is what I came from. This drunk, topless disaster grabbing Haritz’s dick and begging him to fuck her instead of her daughter. Offering up every hole in her body like some kind of desperate bargain.

Haritz’s voice cuts through, stern and controlled. “Woman, you need to let go of my penis.”

I hear him step back, hear her stumble as she loses her grip on him.

“You’ve made a mess of everything and proven your point, don’t you think?” Haritz continues, that careful restraint still in his voice. “Whatever point you believe it might be. Please turn around and leave. Your daughter needs to rest from this insanity.”

I just need to hold it together a little longer. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t turn around and look at her sagging tits and her pathetic tears. Just… wait. Let Haritz handle it. Trust him to handle it.

That’s what I’m doing now—trusting him. Showing him I can be the kind of girl who doesn’t engage with toxic shit, who can walk away from poison. Investment quality. That’s what I am. Not her daughter.

“She’s pathetic. She’s disgusting. And she’s nothing to do with me anymore.” My voice comes out quieter, steadier, directed at Haritz without looking back at Marisa. “I can’t be in the same room as her right now. I just… I can’t. Please make her leave. Please.”

Behind me, I hear her wobble in place, and then that slurred, teary voice—hateful even now.

“I… I see how it is. You don’t respect me anymore, huh…? After everything…” She burps loudly. “After everything I’ve sacrificed. A-alright then, I can tell when I’m not wanted. I’ll… I need a dick.” Stumbling sounds—backward, then sideways, toward the door. “A drink. Where’s the door…”

Then she suddenly turns over her shoulder to speak to me, and I can feel her toxic gaze on my back.

“Let me tell you, whore: this disrespect… is unbecoming. Don’t bother returning home. And good luck…” She laughs that mad, broken laugh. “Ah, yeah, good luck with this nigger man. You know he’ll leave! They all leave. They abandon you in the dirt, alone… I shouldn’t have been born…”

I feel Haritz return to my side, his warm presence hovering protectively.

“Yes, just leave, please,” he says to her, his deep voice firm. “And know that from now on, if you intend to abuse your daughter again, you’ll need to deal with me first.”

She’s leaving. Marisa is finally stumbling toward the door, throwing those last toxic words over her shoulder. Part of me wants to scream back at her, to tell her she’s right about one thing: she shouldn’t have fucking had me if all she was going to do was poison my entire existence.

But the bigger part—the part that Haritz just defended so fiercely, the part that just watched this man reject her advances and maintain his boundaries and promise to help me legally—that part knows I don’t need to say anything else to her. She’s done. She’s leaving. And I’m staying here, in this clean, safe space with the man who might actually save me.

Haritz just said if Marisa intends to abuse me again, she’ll have to deal with him first. He’s… he’s claiming me. Protecting me. Making it clear that I’m under his care now, that he won’t let her touch me anymore.

And I need to show him what that means to me. How much I appreciate it. How grateful I am. How completely I’m choosing him over her.

I turn toward him, and before I can think about it, I close my arms around him tenderly, hugging him tight. Pressing myself against his solid warmth, feeling safe for the first time since that drunk bitch barged in here.

“Thank you.” My voice comes out thick with emotion. “Thank you for… for defending me. For not letting her… for seeing what she is and still…” I squeeze tighter. “You didn’t have to do any of this. You could have just let her drag me back to that hell, but you stood up for me. You actually stood up for me.”

Marisa swings the door open so forcefully that she nearly falls. She pauses there, turning to take one long, hateful look at me hugging Haritz. Then she faces the open doorway and screams into the hallway.

“Hey, a nigger lives here! Just so you know! They take all of your daughters… no matter what you do for them…”

Her voice breaks, wet with tears and rage and whatever poison is eating her from the inside. She stumbles out into the hallway, reaching clumsily for the door handle.

“I’m wet and ready! I can do it better than that little whore!”

The door slams behind her. But I can still hear her—stumbling down the stairs, still shouting her madness to anyone who’ll listen. The sound gets fainter, more distant, until finally it’s gone.

That toxic disaster who birthed me is actually gone. And I’m still here. In Haritz’s clean, safe apartment. With his strong arms wrapped around me, holding me tight against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat—steady, calm—so different from my own frantic pulse hammering against my ribs.

Haritz pulls back just enough to look down into my eyes. His hand stays on the back of my head, gentle and protective.

“Well, I see now. She’s gone. And she’s done. Which means it’s in the past.” His deep voice is soft but certain. “You understand what’s going to happen from now on, right?”

I do. I think I do. He’s claiming me. Taking responsibility for me. Offering to save me from her, permanently. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for—the man who might actually be worth everything, who might actually see my value beyond what I can do with my mouth. And I need to show him—right now, while my mother’s insane screaming is still echoing in the stairwell—that I’m choosing him. That I’m grateful. That I understand what he’s offering and I want it, I need it, I’m his if he’ll have me.

My arms ache to wrap around him, to press myself against that strong, protective body and feel safe again after the chaos Marisa just unleashed. To thank him for not flinching when she slapped him, for not being tempted when she exposed herself, for seeing through all her poison to the truth underneath—that I’m the one worth saving. This hug needs to be tight, desperate, grateful. It needs to show him that I’m clinging to this safety he’s offering with everything I have.

THE END

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The Deep Dive couple had some interesting things to say about this insanity.