“Take the guest room,” my husband yelled, while his sister smirked, “Actually, just move out. I want this house by Sunday.” I didn’t argue; I simply walked out. Two days later, my phone exploded with their terrified screams.

my living room, running her fingers over my expensive décor with a smug smile.

“Actually,” she said, leaning against the marble counter I’d paid for with my last bonus, “the guest room is too small. Bad energy for the baby. Honestly, Elena, why don’t you just move out? If you’re gone by the weekend, we can turn the master bedroom into the nursery.”

I looked to Mark, waiting for him to defend me. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“She’s right,” he muttered. “It’s easier if you stay with your parents. This is my family’s house now.”

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t shed a tear. In that moment, I understood that the man I married was no longer someone I knew.

The next two days passed in quiet, deliberate motion. I packed only what I needed—clothes, essentials, and a very specific collection of documents from my filing cabinet. On Friday evening, while Sarah lounged on my couch eating grapes and Dave drank my aged wine, I placed my keys in Mark’s hand.

“I’m leaving,” I said calmly.