Ray, the legally-binding husband I never asked for, still dropped by once a week—reeking of factory grease and emotional constipation. He was always tired. Always collapsing on the couch with a limp “Hey babe,” before falling asleep like a corpse.
No kisses. No questions. No suspicions.
Perfect. Because every second he snored, I was planning. It was a Tuesday when I made the decision.
I fed the kids, cleaned vomit off the rug (again), folded laundry, reattached a Barbie head, and then—when the house finally stilled into silence—I pulled out the burning phone.
No one else knew it existed. It had been hidden in the false bottom of the toolbox in the garage, beneath a bag of rusted screws and leftover IKEA nails. Its screen glowed with a faint orange light when I powered it on. Most would
