I thought I was marrying the most thoughtful man I’d ever met. Collins was gentle, attentive, and remembered the smallest things — like my cat’s name or my favorite tea. After a year of dating, we married and moved in with his mother, Jenna, “just to save money.” That’s when everything changed. Suddenly, I was expected to cook, clean, and serve, all while being told how “lucky” I was.

Then I got hurt at work — torn ligament, six weeks of recovery. Collins was sweet at first, fluffing pillows and promising to take care of me. But the next day, I woke to a locked door. A paper slid under it read: “Interim Home Contribution Agreement,” listing chores, restrictions, and rent once I healed. It was signed by Collins and Jenna. A pen lay beside it, waiting for mine.

They thought I was trapped, but I’d hidden a spare key behind the headboard after previous “accidental” lock-ins. I escaped, grabbed my phone, and called my sister. She arrived with the police and my brother-in-law, James. I showed them the contract and explained everything. Collins tried to claim it was a misunderstanding. The officer didn’t buy it.

I left that night and filed for divorce. Collins tried contesting it, claiming “mental distress” from losing my “domestic support.” James, a lawyer, countered with receipts — literally. Texts, 911 call logs, and the contract.

Collins lost the case. Then he lost his job. Jenna got evicted.

When I saw him weeks later, he said I’d ruined his life.
“No,” I replied. “You just underestimated mine.”