I met Collins when I was a tired waitress and he was the kind stranger who remembered my cat’s name. He wasn’t flashy, but he was attentive, kind — or so I thought. A year later, I said yes to his modest proposal, believing I’d found a man who valued love over show.The truth came in whispers. Moving into his mom Jenna’s house “to save money” turned into cleaning, cooking, and constant criticism. Collins stopped saying “we” and started saying “handle it.” I became their unpaid maid.
Then I tore a ligament at work. Suddenly, I was “recovering” — in a locked bedroom. They slid an “Interim Home Contribution Agreement” under the door, demanding I cook all meals, do laundry, and pay rent once I could work again.
It was signed by both of them, with a pen ready for my nameWhat they didn’t know? I’d hidden a spare key months earlier. I unlocked the door, grabbed my phone, and called my sister. Ten minutes later, police were at the door. I left with my family and filed for divorce.
Collins tried to fight it in court, claiming “loss of domestic support.” My brother-in-law, a lawyer, buried him with the contract, texts, and medical records. Collins lost his case — and his job. Jenna lost the house.When I saw him weeks later, he told me, “You ruined my life.”“No,” I said. “You just didn’t think I had one without you.”
