The call to the lawyer turned out simpler than I expected. The words flowed without hesitation: “I’d like to file for divorce.”
And the moment I said it, something inside me unlocked. Like I’d finally turned the key to a cage I didn’t realize I had built around myself.
I returned to an empty house. Silent, as always. But this time, it wasn’t oppressive. It felt like space—ready to be claimed. Mine, even if only for a while.
I walked to the storage room, the one Alaric mocked as “the junk closet.” But to me, it was sacred. I opened box after box, lifting each canvas like fragments of a younger me—back when I painted by the window, humming to myself, believing in a future colored with light.
Until Alaric crushed it. “Painting won’t feed us, Corinne. Stop wasting time. Be a wife.”
So I stopped. At least, on the surface. I packed away my dreams into cardboard and dust. But in secret, in stolen hours before dawn, I kept painting. Some I even sold online, under a name he’d never know. Little by little, I saved. Little by little, I hoped.
Now, I unwrapped them all and laid them across the floor. My forgotten colors lit up the room. They were beautiful. Alive. And so was I.
That afternoon, I dialed Aurelio.
He picked up instantly. “Corinne?”
“I’m ready,” I whispered.
A beat. Then his voice erupted with joy. “You’re serious? Corinne, this is amazing! I’ve been waiting for this. The gallery has the perfect spot for you—say the word and it’s yours.”
“I want it,” I said, steady. “I’m done hiding.”
By evening, I had delivered my best works to the gallery. My fingers were smudged with paint, my heart bursting with something I hadn’t felt in years—pride. For once, I had done something for me.
Later, back home, I idly scrolled my phone. Until a photo stopped me cold.
My son. Smiling with Isolde at his side, Alaric and my father standing proudly behind them. A picture-perfect family. Without me.
The caption read: “Grateful for these people. My strongest support system.”
Support system? The same people who silenced me, erased me, replaced me? My blood boiled—not with grief, but fury.
I whispered into the empty room, “Just a few more weeks. And I’ll be gone. You’ll never hurt me again.”
That night, I slipped into the red dress Alaric once called “too tight, too loud.” The dress I kept hidden because it made me feel powerful. I painted my lips with the makeup he had once given away to Isolde, and I walked straight into a downtown bar.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was alive. Music pulsed, laughter carried through the air, and I felt free.
I ordered a glass of red and savored every sip.
Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Again. Again. Then came the flood of texts:
“What’s going on? Why aren’t you answering? Corinne, really? Stop being dramatic. I said I was sorry! I even let you have fun—gave you freedom! What else do you want? Where the hell are you?”
I stared at the screen, calm as stone. It wasn’t love—it was control he was losing. And he couldn’t stand it.
I raised my glass, snapped a photo with the neon bar lights glowing behind me, and posted it with one simple caption:
Oh, such a beautiful night to enjoy my life.
