“He doesn’t hit you… so what’s the problem?”

I heard it so often, it echoed in my sleep. Tony didn’t hit, cheat, or drink. So why was I so unhappy?

With the kids gone, I could no longer ignore the truth. I worked full-time—earned more, even—yet still came home to clean, cook, and do laundry while Tony lounged, remote in hand.

One night, he yelled, “Carmen! There’s dust on the TV!”

“Then clean it yourself,” I snapped.

“What am I, the woman of the house?” he scoffed.

That was it. I packed a bag and left. I didn’t know where—just away.

At a gas station, I ran into David—my first love. We chatted, then parted. But when my car broke down, David returned and offered help. I stayed at his place while the car was repaired.

Days passed—coffee, dinners, memories. Old feelings resurfaced. Then he kissed me.

But Tony’s message pulled me back. I left—until, on the bus, I changed my mind.

Rushing back, I overheard David.

“That was quite the plan,” said the mechanic.

“I had to make sure she didn’t leave,” David replied.