Later, at home, the house was quiet. Suitcases by the stairs. Papers spread across the table. No sharp voices. Just stillness.
On the table lay one more envelope. My name, written in his hand.
Chels, if you’re reading this, it means you made it. You’re braver than you think.
I held the note against my chest, standing in the middle of a house that finally felt like mine. Not because of the walls, but because somewhere along the way, I had taken my story back.
