The next morning, I called my sister. I told her I’d miscalculated expenses and needed a small loan. She didn’t ask questions. She transferred the money within the hour.
I bought my medication. I kept quiet. I avoided another fight.
Life returned to its usual rhythm—strained, tense, but predictable.
Until exactly one month later.
The front door burst open at 4 p.m.—three hours earlier than usual.
My husband stumbled inside, pale as paper.
“Come outside,” he said breathlessly. “Now.”
My stomach dropped.
I followed him onto the porch.
And froze.
