The night Ryan Holt finally said the words out loud—leave—it didn’t feel like a dramatic ending, the kind where a marriage explodes and everyone sees the smoke. It felt worse than that. It felt like a quiet dismissal, like I had been reduced to a coat he didn’t want hanging in his closet anymore. One moment I was standing in our kitchen under the warm glow of the pendant lights, and the next I was on the porch of the house I’d lived in for eight years with a duffel bag at my feet and my purse clutched so hard my fingers ached.
Denver winter air bit my cheeks, and the porch light above me flickered once as if even the house was embarrassed to witness it. Ryan didn’t follow me out. He didn’t tell me to call when I got somewhere safe. He didn’t ask if I had money or a place to sleep. He had already decided that I was “a burden” and that getting rid of me was the simplest solution to his new life. He had come home late again, smelling like someone else—sweet perfume that clung to his collar and seemed to mock me with every breath.
