On the first day of our marriage, my husband threw a greasy dishcloth in my face and said, “From now on, you’re my family’s maid.” I smiled, left my wedding ring on the table, and walked out with my suitcase.
Brenda paled immediately when she saw the suitcase in my hand.
“What on earth does this mean?” she asked in a sharp voice.
“You are absolutely right,” I said calmly as I adjusted my grip on my bag. “I should not be living for free at your house, so I will simply stop living here.”
Brandon stood up suddenly from the couch, his face turning red with anger.
“Do not make a stupid scene in front of my parents,” he threatened. “Go back upstairs, unpack your suitcase right now, and apologize to us.”
“No, I will not do that,” I replied instantly.
He tried to grab my arm aggressively, but I backed away before he could touch me.
“If you cross that door today, you won’t come back,” he yelled at me.
“I truly hope so,” I said.
I opened the front door to leave. Before stepping outside, I glanced back toward the kitchen one last time.
“By the way, the dishes are still dirty, and the dishcloth is on the counter,” I told them. “You can divide the work among yourselves now.”
I closed the door behind me, immediately blocked his phone number, and walked to the nearest bus stop where I called my mother.
“Mom, I am getting a divorce,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line before she spoke.
