I thought the worst part of that morning would be the freezing cold or the ache in my six-month-pregnant body. I was wrong.
We were out of milk, and my husband, Will, refused to go. “Let them drink water,” he said. The twins would melt down without it, so I bundled up and drove through the snow myself.
At the store I tried to calm down, telling myself couples fight. I even texted him sweetly to unlock the door.
No answer.
When I got home, the door was locked. I stood outside for twenty-five minutes, shivering, needing the bathroom, hearing my daughter cry for me inside. Finally, Will opened the door with a smirk.
“I thought you said it wasn’t that cold.”
Before I could explode, I saw another woman’s boots.
My heart dropped.
I pushed past him, ready for betrayal — but the woman introduced herself as Karen, a representative from Will’s job. She was there to fire him. Missed deadlines. An email calling his manager incompetent. Final warning.
He hadn’t wanted me to know.
After she left, I told him the truth: hiding things and humiliating me isn’t protection.
“You don’t get to lock me out again,” I said. “Not from the house. Not from your life.”
This time, he listened.
