Sarah backed away, legs weak, chest crushed. Three years. Three years she’d worked herself raw. Three years since Ethan came home in tears, admitting gambling debts, begging for help “just this once,” promising he’d fix it. She’d believed him, loved him, taken second job, then third, then fourth. Same three outfits rotated, hair cut in the bathroom mirror, gym and friends abandoned, mother visits skipped for gas money, ramen dinners while Ethan ordered takeout. And he’d been laughing—calling her his slave—using her money for another woman.
She reached the kitchen, staring at his dirty dishes in the sink—the ones she’d wash before bed because he never did. Her hands shook, then her whole body. She gripped the counter. She’d chosen this charcoal-gray granite five years ago, so excited to build a life together. But Ethan had built a cage, and she’d been too trusting, too tired to see.
Her phone buzzed: hospital asking for an extra shift tomorrow. She stared at it. No.