“Happy birthday,” I whispered to myself.
That night, I stared at the ceiling while he snored beside me.
Fourteen years replayed in my mind — sacrifices, patience, support, silence.
And all he saw was a servant.
When he told me to “know my place,” something inside me finally broke.
I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped being the woman who painted, who laughed, who believed she mattered.
She had faded quietly.
The next morning, the house was empty.
Wrapped in a robe, I opened the door to get the newspaper — and froze.
A silver sedan sat in the driveway, gleaming under the sun.
A large bow stretched across the hood.
At first, I thought it had to be a mistake.
Then I saw the envelope on the mirror.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
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