“They’re moving in,” he said, with the casual tone someone might use to announce a furniture delivery. “Mom and Dad. Full-time.”
It felt like all the oxygen had been ripped from my chest.
I just stared at him, certain I’d misunderstood.
“What?” I breathed.
Linda tipped her head, putting on that artificial sweetness she perfected over the years. “We can’t leave family alone, dear. You wouldn’t want to be selfish, would you?”
Selfish. The same accusation she threw at me whenever I asked for boundaries, whenever I pleaded with Justin to prioritize our marriage instead of surrendering to her dominance.
Justin stepped closer, lowering his voice until it felt less like a conversation and more like a warning meant just for me.
“If you don’t like it,” he said, “we’ll just get divorced.”
Then came the sentence that froze my blood.
“You’ll lose the house.”
Linda’s smile sharpened into something predatory.
I looked from one to the other, my pulse thudding so violently I could hear it in my ears. Memories flooded in all at once—the way Linda’s screeching voice pierced every morning, the way Justin always claimed to be “neutral,” the way my own life slowly stopped feeling like it belonged to me.
And now they wanted to drag that misery into the one place I’d purchased to escape.
“No,” I said quietly, but the word held weight. “I don’t want to live with you, Linda.”
Linda blinked in that slow, patronizing way teachers use when a student speaks out of line. Then she opened her purse. She pulled out divorce papers.
Already signed. Justin’s signature lay there, stark and final, like an old wound ripped open.
Because I finally arrived.
And this time—
I’m not leaving.
