He hit me every day over the tiniest things. burnt toast, a late reply, a wrong look, You made me do this, he did hiss, One night, panic swallowed me whole and I collapsed, At the hospital, he said to them, She slipped in the shower

“Yes,” I said.

As they cuffed him, he leaned close and whispered, “You’re ruining everything. You’ll regret this.”

For the first time, his words didn’t own me.

The weeks that followed were brutal in a new way—statements, photographs, interviews, court dates. Nights waking in terror, convinced I heard his key in the lock. I moved into a small apartment with help from a local shelter. It wasn’t home. But it was safe.

Jason was charged. His family blamed me. Some friends disappeared. Others surprised me by standing close when it mattered.

Healing wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t arrive all at once. It was slow, uneven, and awkward. But every morning I woke without fear of footsteps behind me felt like a quiet victory.

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