I married Collins believing I’d found someone gentle, thoughtful, and kind. He remembered my cat’s name, offered rides in the rain, and made me feel seen. But after we moved in with his mother Jenna to “save money,” the warmth faded. I became the unpaid maid—expected to cook, clean, and serve while they relaxed.
Then came the injury. A workplace accident left me on bed rest for six weeks. I thought I’d finally be cared for. Instead, they carried me upstairs, locked the door from the outside, and slid a contract under it—demanding chores and rent. I wasn’t a wife anymore. I was a prisoner.
But I had planned for this. Months earlier, I’d hidden a spare key. I escaped, called my sister, and the police arrived within minutes. With legal help, I filed for divorce and a restraining order. Collins lost his job. Jenna was evicted. And I began healing in a home filled with real love.
Months later, Collins told me I’d ruined his life. I simply said, “You didn’t think I had one without you.” That wasn’t revenge—it was reclaiming my dignity.
