The thermometer slipped from my fingers, clattering against the sink. 40°C. My vision blurred. My body felt like it was on fire, every muscle screaming. I swallowed bile and braced myself against the counter. Just lie down, I told myself. Ten minutes. Then water. Then rest.
The front door slammed. “Where’s dinner?” Mark’s voice cut through the house, sharp, demanding. I pulled on a hoodie, sticky with heat, and shuffled toward him. “I’m sick,” I said carefully. “I can’t cook tonight.”
He didn’t see me. He only saw excuses. “You’ve been home all day,” he snapped. The room tilted. I grabbed the chair for balance. His hand lashed out—slap—sharp, loud, burning my cheek. Blood and metallic taste filled my mouth. “Don’t talk back,” he hissed.
From the kitchen, Linda, my mother-in-law, appeared like a storm, apron on, eyes cold. “What kind of wife refuses to cook?” she demanded. “I never stopped, even with a fever.”
Something inside me snapped. Not a scream. Not chaos. Just clarity. I walked to the bedroom, locked the door, and sat against the wall, letting the world stop spinning. At 2 a.m., Mark’s snoring filled the house—calm, unbothered, undeserving of concern.
I opened my laptop. Months of hidden preparation waited there: photos of bruises, screenshots of cruel messages, dates logged, notes taken. And the file that mattered most: divorce papers. I had downloaded them years ago, printed them, and waited—hoping for a change that never came.
Tonight, fever and fear aside, waiting ended. I signed my name.
Continue reading on next page…