Mine.
That settled it.
After they drove away, the silence in the house felt unfamiliar.
I stood in the kitchen, hand resting on the counter, and realized I had spent years organizing myself around Derek’s moods. Around his criticisms. Around his mother’s disapproval.
Around the constant tension of knowing every success I had would somehow be turned into a flaw.
Without them, the silence felt less like emptiness and more like oxygen.
At six that evening, my phone lit up.
Derek. Then Gloria. Then Melanie.
Then extended family.
That was expected.
People like Derek rarely tell the truth when they lose control. They tell a version where they are victims.
His aunt left a voicemail about patience.
Gloria sent a long message explaining that a good wife sacrifices during hard times and that Derek had “only spoken firmly because he was stressed.”
Only spoken firmly.
As if words didn’t reveal structure. As if “you’ll be the one taking care of them” wasn’t the sentence that exposed the entire marriage.
I didn’t reply to any of them.
I only answered my father.
He called around eight.
