The Divorce

The words hung in the air between us, impossible to take back.

His face transformed. Something dark and terrible crossed his features, something that made every instinct scream at me to run.

"You're not leaving me," he said quietly.

"Ever. Do you understand? You're my wife. You belong to me."

"I don't belong to anyone—"

He moved so fast I didn't have time to react. His hand locked around my wrist, tight, bruising.

"You're not going anywhere," he said.

"We're going to sit down, and you're going to tell me exactly what you've been planning. And then we're going to fix this. Together."

I looked at his hand on my wrist, at his face—cold and certain and completely in control.

And I realised: I couldn't do this carefully anymore. I couldn't wait for the perfect moment; couldn't plan every detail.

I needed to leave. Tonight.

Before this got worse.

Before he took even more than he already had.

Before there was nothing left of me to save.

Alexander left for San Francisco at six AM. Business trip. Two days of investor meetings he couldn't miss.

My window.

I watched from the bedroom window as his car disappeared into early morning traffic, counted to one hundred, then called Sarah.

"He's gone."

"We're on our way."

Sarah and Rosa arrived within twenty minutes, Rosa's old Honda pulling into the visitor parking. They came up together, Sarah with empty boxes, Rosa with determination etched on her face.

"Pack fast," Sarah said. "We don't know if he'll come back early."

My hands shook so badly I could barely fold clothes. Three years of marriage, and I was packing one suitcase. Clothes. Toiletries. My laptop.

The evidence folder hidden in my art supply box—the one place Alexander never looked because he'd decided art was a "waste of time”.

Everything I owned, everything I was, fit in one suitcase.

"Mija, we need to go. Now." Rosa's voice was urgent.

I took one last look at the penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle. Custom furniture. Original art on the walls. Three thousand square feet of beautiful prison.

Three years of my life. Three years of slowly disappearing.

I left my wedding ring on the bathroom counter. Left the credit cards he'd given me—all monitored, all controlled. Took only what was mine.

Which, it turned out, wasn't much.

The King County Courthouse was grey stone and fluorescent lights. We took a number and waited in plastic chairs, surrounded by other people ending their marriages.

"Next," the clerk called.

I approached the window with shaking hands. Rosa stood behind me, solid and unwavering.

"I need to file for divorce."

The clerk handed me forms. So many forms. I filled them out with Sarah's help, my handwriting barely legible.

Petitioner: Elena Maria Rodriguez

Respondent: Alexander James Blackwood

Grounds: Irreconcilable differences

I couldn't bring myself to write the word "abuse" on the official form. Not yet. Jessica had advised keeping it simple for now.

"That'll be $280," the clerk said.

I paid in cash. Sarah's cash, actually. I had nothing of my own.

The clerk stamped the papers with bureaucratic efficiency. She had no idea she was processing my freedom.

"Next we need the restraining order," Jessica said. She'd met us at the courthouse, all business in her sharp suit.

Another courtroom. Another judge. I presented evidence—recordings of Alexander's late-night interrogations, GPS tracking logs, screenshots of threatening texts, and photos of his journal entries.

The judge, a woman in her sixties with steel-grey hair, listened without expression.

"Temporary restraining order granted," she said finally. "Respondent must maintain 500 feet distance. No contact except through attorneys. Hearing scheduled for two weeks."

Just like that. Protected. On paper, anyway.

Rosa's house smelt like coffee and cinnamon, like childhood, like safety.

My old bedroom was now a guest room—floral bedspread, doilies on the dresser, photos of me at various ages covering the walls. I unpacked my single suitcase into the small closet.

Ten weeks pregnant. Newly separated. Essentially homeless.

But free.

The word felt foreign. I tested it silently. Free.

Sarah arrived that evening with Thai food—pad thai and spring rolls and mango sticky rice, comfort food from our college days.

We sat on the floor of my tiny room, eating from takeout containers, and for the first time in months, I laughed. Really laughed.

"How are you feeling?" Sarah asked.

"Terrified. Relieved. Nauseous—but that might be the pregnancy."

"Probably the pregnancy. Although terror is also nauseating."

We laughed again. It felt good. Foreign, but good.

My new phone buzzed. New number, bought yesterday; only five people had it.

Jessica: "Restraining order in effect. He's been served. Be prepared—men like him often escalate when they lose control."

I stared at the message. Escalate. What did that even mean? How much worse could it get?

Jessica called the next morning.

"He's contesting everything. The restraining order, the settlement, all allegations. His legal team is very aggressive."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's hired Kelley & Associates. Top family law firm in Seattle. Very expensive. This won't be easy or quick."

My stomach dropped. Of course. Of course Alexander would hire the best.

That afternoon, an email arrived from his lawyer:

"Client disputes all allegations of abuse. Demands immediate marriage counselling. Suggests Mrs. Blackwood is experiencing a mental health crisis and requests psychiatric evaluation before proceeding."

Mental health crisis. They were calling me crazy.

The oldest trick in the book.

Two days later, a package arrived at Rosa's house. Legal documents, thick and official.

Alexander was demanding I undergo psychiatric evaluation. Was claiming I was unstable and delusional, making false accusations to punish him for "normal marital disagreements".

I read the documents with shaking hands.

"They can't make you do that," Rosa said fiercely. "Can they?"

"I don't know," I whispered.

Late that night, I couldn't sleep. My mind raced through worst-case scenarios. What if the court believed him? What if they forced a psychiatric evaluation? What if I lost?

My phone rang. Unknown number.

I should have let it go to voicemail. But exhaustion made me stupid, and I answered.

"Elena."

Alexander's voice. I hadn't heard it in days. It hit me like a physical blow.

"You're violating the restraining order," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"I'm calling from a friend's phone. They can't trace this." His voice was soft, pleading. "Elena, please. Come home.

Whatever I did, we can fix it."

"No."

"I love you. I know I have problems. I'll get help. Real help. I'll go to therapy every day if that's what you want. Just come back."

For one moment—one tiny, traitorous moment—I almost believed him.

Almost remembered the man I'd fallen in love with, the one who'd quoted poetry and taken me to art galleries and made me feel seen.

Then his voice changed.

"If you don't come back, I'll fight you on everything. The settlement. The restraining order. Everything. I have the best lawyers in Seattle. I'll make sure you get nothing."

There it was. There he was. The real Alexander.

"Then I'll see you in court," I said.

I hung up. Blocked the number. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone.

I touched my belly—eleven weeks now, the tiniest swell visible when I lay flat. "It's just us now," I whispered to the baby. "And that's enough."

My phone buzzed immediately. Different number. A text.

"You can run, but you can't hide, my child. I have rights."