I kept it in a drawer, untouched, because swiping it felt like agreeing with him—that my life had been worth so little. After the divorce, everything fell apart quietly. I rented a narrow room behind an aging grocery store. I cleaned office buildings before dawn. Some nights I went to bed hungry. Pain became a constant companion. Pride was the only thing I still owned.
Five years passed.
My body eventually made the decision my mind kept avoiding.
One afternoon, I collapsed outside my door. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed, weak, dizzy, barely conscious. The doctor didn’t soften his words.
“You’re severely malnourished,” he said. “Another few months like this could have killed you.”
That night, lying under harsh fluorescent lights, I finally understood something: pride doesn’t keep you alive.
The next morning, I went to the bank.
My hands shook as I slid the old card across the counter. It was scratched, faded, almost embarrassing.
“I’d like to withdraw everything on this account,” I said quietly.
The teller frowned at her screen.
She stared longer than normal.
