I first met Collins at 28, drowning in stress and marinara during a night shift at a cramped Italian restaurant. He wasn’t flashy—just soft eyes, a warm laugh, and the kind of tipper who sat in the same corner booth every Thursday.
One night, after a late shift and a thunderstorm, he calmly offered me a ride home—no lingering looks, just kind words and soft rock on the radio. Three weeks later, we were dating. A year later, he proposed with a modest ring and a nervous smile. Everything felt right—until the strain began.
Soft but steady pressure crept in:
- His sighs and guilt‑trips over my extra shifts
- Me moving into his mom Jenna’s house, where I was handed chores and silent expectations
- His language shifting to commands—“think you can handle that?”
Six weeks into a serious knee injury, they locked me in my room. A “Home Contribution Agreement”—unsigned by me—listed chores, rent, restrictions, and penalties. Locked from the outside, they thought they’d planned it all. But I found a spare key hidden behind the bed.
I escaped, called my sister, and with her and police help, I exposed the control. I filed for a restraining order and divorce. My sister’s husband, a lawyer, added the contract, my medical report, screenshots, and texts to our case. The judge ruled in my favor. Collins lost his job over ethics violations. Jenna got evicted. A mutual friend says they now live in a sister’s basement.
Our paths crossed in a pharmacy recently. Collins muttered, “You really ruined my life.” I smiled.
“You just didn’t think I had one without you.”