He made me clean the house, wash his clothes, cook his meals.
If something came out wrong—a stain that wouldn’t disappear, a corner I had forgotten to clean—he took it all out on me.
The sound of his palm slicing through the air before hitting my skin. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth. The physical and emotional abuse. Memories I had left behind. Empty gaps in my mind.
But I still remembered perfectly the night I decided to change everything.
That day, he came through the kitchen like a hurricane, slamming the door so hard I felt the walls tremble. I knew what was coming before he even spoke. I already knew the heavy rhythm of his boots on the floor, the way he breathed deeply before shouting.
"Evelyn! Where were you? You left me waiting for my coffee as if I had nothing better
