One last click.
The first thing I did was call a locksmith. Within an hour, the locks were changed. The harsh scrape of new metal in the door soothed me better than any sedative could have.
After that, I sat down in the kitchen.
The apartment had gone quiet. The neighbors upstairs had finally stopped drilling. A pale moon hung outside the window, thin and washed out.
I pulled out the calculator.
All right. About $770 a month. Around $385 for the mortgage. That left roughly $385. Child support… Brian had an official job, so through the court I could probably get another $165 to $220 out of him. Altogether, about $600.
For the two of us.
And you know what? That was still more than I had left when I was feeding that hog. I wouldn’t have to buy eleven pounds of meat every week anymore. I wouldn’t be covering his phone bill or internet charges. I wouldn’t have to sit there listening to him whine about his “hard life.”
“Mom?” Tyler appeared in the doorway, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Did Dad leave?”
“Yes, honey. Dad went to Grandma’s.”
“For good?”
“For good.”
He hesitated. “Are we… are we going to be poor now?”
I pulled him close. “We’re going to be free, sweetheart. That matters a lot more. And we’ll definitely have enough for pizza tomorrow.”
I hugged my son tighter. He felt so small in my arms, so thin and warm and trusting. And in that instant, anger rose in me so sharply that it burned away the last traces of doubt. How had I endured this for so many years? How had I let that man take food, money, peace—everything—from my child?
Tomorrow, I would go to a lawyer. Divorce papers first. Child support right along with them. Then the bank. I’d ask about restructuring the mortgage, maybe extending the term so the monthly payment would be lower.
Was it going to be hard? Of course it was. Hell, I didn’t even know how I was going to pay for Tyler’s English tutoring next month.
But I would manage.
Women are stubborn creatures. We’re like weeds. People trample us, rip at us, try to bury us under concrete—and somehow, we still push through the cracks.
I went into the bedroom. His side of the bed still smelled like his cologne. I yanked off the sheets, balled them up, and shoved them into the washing machine on the longest cycle it had.
Let it all wash out.
The smell. The memories. That sticky, humiliating resentment.
There was suddenly an almost suspicious amount of space in the closet. I took my dresses—the bright ones, the pretty ones that had been crushed into one corner for years—and hung them properly.
I would wear one tomorrow.
For no reason.
For myself.
Brian had already called at least twenty times. Linda sent a text: “Emily, you’re making a terrible mistake. A man is the head of the family. Think about your son!”
I did think about him, Linda.
That was exactly who I was thinking about.
Your precious boy was done eating my child’s share.
I turned off the light and climbed into bed. For the first time in a very long while, there wasn’t that familiar lump lodged in my throat. The apartment smelled clean, like laundry and my favorite lavender air freshener.
Tomorrow, a new life would begin.
It would be difficult. Careful. Full of numbers, coupons, calculations, and sacrifices.
But it would be mine.
No more “personal money” from some strange man lying in my bed.
I closed my eyes. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed. A car passed beneath the windows. The city slowly drifted to sleep.
And I fell asleep with it, knowing that in the morning I would wake up as the owner of my own fate.
And my own refrigerator.
Would you agree to support a husband on your salary?