I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I nodded, went to bed, and stared at the ceiling until morning.
The next day, while he was out, I changed the locks.
It felt cruel and necessary all at once—like amputating something to stop the bleeding. I told myself I was choosing survival. I told myself I was protecting what little I had left.
To distract myself, I started clearing his room. I folded clothes, boxed up books, and tried not to think about how quiet the house felt again. When I bent to check under the bed, my fingers brushed against a small duffel bag shoved far back against the wall.
It had my name written on it.
