The thermometer slipped and clattered against the sink: 40°C. I froze, staring at the number, willing it to mean less. Heat rolled off me in waves. Every muscle ached. My stomach churned. Just lie down, I told myself. Ten minutes. Then you’ll be fine.
The front door slammed. “Where’s dinner?” Mark’s voice cut sharp from the living room. I pulled on a hoodie, sticky with sweat, and shuffled toward him, hand on the wall for balance.
Mark Reynolds stood there, half-jacketed, keys in hand, irritation written all over his face. “You’re home all day,” he snapped. “What excuse do you have?”
The room tilted. I gripped a chair. His hand slapped my face. Pain exploded, metallic and real. “Don’t talk back,” he hissed. “Being sick doesn’t get you out of your responsibilities.”
I didn’t fight. I sank onto the couch. White spots danced in my fevered vision. Every breath burned.
Then Linda appeared—my mother-in-law, apron like armor, eyes sharp. “What kind of wife refuses to cook?” she demanded. “When I was sick, I still served my family.”
Something inside me cracked. Not from the fever. From the certainty that my suffering was an inconvenience. I walked to the bedroom, locked the door, and slid to the floor. Shallow breaths. Hours passed.
At 2 a.m., Mark snored—steady, untroubled. I opened my laptop, hands shaking from fever but steady enough to act. I pulled up emails from my doctor warning about untreated infections, dehydration, high fevers. Then I opened my secret folder: photos, messages, a timeline of abuse. And the file that mattered: unsigned divorce papers.
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