The Last Straw — And the Exit
The next morning, Victor came back.
Eyes red. Hands shaking.
“Ruby, I want to fix this,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose you.”
For a second, I almost softened.
Then he kept talking.
“Maybe my sister was right,” he said. “Maybe none of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t lost our babies. You’re the selfish one, Ruby. You always have been.”
Something inside me hardened.
Before I could stop myself, my hand flew across his cheek. I hated that I did it. But I couldn’t pull it back.
His face changed. Rage surged up. He grabbed my shoulder, shouted something incoherent, then shouldered past me into the bathroom.
I watched as he:
- Smashed my makeup onto the floor
- Ripped decorations off the walls
- Punched a hole straight through the plaster
“Stop!” I yelled. “You don’t get to destroy me and this house too!”
He ignored me, throwing my things like they were nothing.
“Get out, Victor,” I said finally. “Get out of my house before I call the police.”
Something in my voice must have landed. He left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
I sank to the floor. No tears left. Just… empty.
I called my mother — someone I hadn’t leaned on in years. The moment she heard my voice, she said, “Stay put. I’m coming.”
Thirty minutes later, she was there.
I collapsed into her arms and whispered, “I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t keep fighting alone.”
She held me. Then went into the bathroom and started taking photos.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Her eyes were steady.
“We’re documenting everything,” she said. “It’s time to divorce this man. And we’re going to make him pay for every bit of damage he’s done — to this house and to you.”
I didn’t argue.
I packed a bag while she called a locksmith. By nightfall, the locks were changed, and I was gone.
I wish I could tell you this ended in some neat reconciliation. That Violet gave birth and Victor and I grew back together, wiser and softer.
But that’s not what happened.
Here’s the truth no one puts on Instagram: grief can break a marriage as easily as it breaks a body. And sometimes the final straw isn’t one moment — it’s every dismissal, every invasion, every time someone calls your pain “selfish” until you finally see yourself clearly.
And you choose not to disappear.
