I met Collins when I was 28, knee-deep in stress and marinara sauce, juggling plates during the night shift at a cramped Italian restaurant. He wasn’t flashy. Just a man with soft eyes and a warm laugh who sat in the same corner booth every Thursday. He remembered my sick cat’s name and offered me a ride home one rainy night. I thought I was marrying the most thoughtful man I’d ever met.

We moved into his mom Jenna’s house to “save money.” At first, Jenna smiled. Then came the lists: “keep the upstairs tidy,” “wipe down the bathroom daily.” Collins stopped saying “we.” He’d look at a sink full of dishes and say, “Think you can handle that, babe?”

I was carrying a heavy tray of drinks when my foot caught on a loose mat in the kitchen. I went down hard. At the hospital, the doctor said, “Torn ligament. You’ll need to stay off it for at least six weeks.”
Collins was calm when he picked me up. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got you.” That first day, he really did. He carried me upstairs, fluffed my pillows, and tucked the blanket around me. Then they walked out.
I heard the soft, deliberate click. The door locking.
“Collins?” I called. “Why’d you lock the door?”

No answer. A sheet of paper slid under the door. “Interim Home Contribution Agreement.” At the bottom were two signatures: Collins Thomas. Jenna Thomas. Mine was missing. But a pen had been thoughtfully left beside it.
Jenna’s voice floated through the door, syrupy and calm. “We’re just trying to help you adjust.”