I thought Collins was “the one.” He was nice, thoughtful, and cared about my cat’s illness and tea preferences.
I moved into his mother Jenna’s house when he proposed after a year. Then everything changed. Sweetness became chore lists, and I became the unpaid housekeeper.
Collins stopped helping, and Jenna treated me like hired help. Hoped it was transitory. No—it became my reality.
Then I tore a ligament at work. Six weeks of doctor-ordered rest.
Collins vowed to look after me. On the first day, he and Jenna took me upstairs, fluffed pillows, and offered me drink. outside the bedroom door, lock it.
I was stunned. A “Home Contribution Agreement” indicating I would cook, clean, and pay rent following recuperation slipped under the door moments later. Both signatures were there. Mine wasn’t, but they left a pen.
What was unknown? A backup key was stashed beneath the headboard months before. I grabbed my phone and contacted my sister after unlocking the door.
The cops arrived. I presented my contract and medical records. Although Collins and Jenna attempted to alter the tale, the facts were clear. That night, I departed forever.
Went for divorce a week later.
Collins argued, but my legal brother-in-law buried him with evidence.
Collins lost the lawsuit and job. Jenna was evicted.
I saw Collins at the drugstore weeks later. He responded, “You ruined my life.” I grinned and said, “No—I finally chose mine.”
