I met Collins when I was a tired waitress and he was the kind customer who remembered my cat’s name. He wasn’t flashy, but he seemed attentive and gentle — or so I believed. A year later, I said yes to his modest proposal, convinced I’d found a man who valued love over appearances.
The truth revealed itself slowly. Moving into his mother Jenna’s house “to save money” turned into endless chores and constant criticism. Collins stopped saying “we” and started saying “you.” I became the one expected to manage everything, without thanks or respect.
When I was injured at work, instead of support, I found myself isolated. One day, they slid a paper under my door — an “agreement” demanding I handle all the household duties once I recovered, and even contribute rent. They left a pen for my signature. What they didn’t know was that I had kept a spare key hidden months earlier. I walked out, called my sister, and left with my family by my side.
Collins tried to contest the divorce, but the evidence — messages, documents, and testimony — told the real story. In the end, the court ruled in my favor. Weeks later, he told me bitterly, “You ruined my life.” I looked him in the eye and replied, “No. I just remembered that I still have one without you.”