“Morning, Mr. Thompson,” I greeted him. “Ready to tackle the wiring?”

“Absolutely,” he said, setting down his toolkit. We discussed everything from outlet placements to lighting fixtures. I loved this part—the planning, the vision, the transformation.

Just as we were wrapping up, Noah showed up. “Hey, honey,” he hugged me. “I’m going to take some photos to send Dad, then I’ll help you measure those windows, okay?”

A few minutes later, I heard Sam’s unmistakable baritone. “Anything over $5,000 needs my approval,” he was saying. My blood boiled. This was my project, my vision!

I stormed downstairs. “Excuse me?” I interjected. “We’re handling the renovations. Why should you get to approve every little detail?”

Sam looked taken aback. “Eliza, I just want to make sure everything is done right.”

“Everything is being done right,” I snapped. “I’m not some amateur. But I can’t keep going if you’re going to micromanage every decision.”

“Ungrateful,” Sam muttered. Noah looked at me, a mix of shock and sadness in his eyes. “This is what you married?” Sam asked Noah.

Back in our apartment, I grabbed a suitcase. Noah followed, looking helpless. “Eliza, please. Let’s talk about this.”

“I have to,” I said, my voice cracking. “I love you, but I can’t see a future for us if things don’t change.”

I left with a heavy heart, Muffin cradled in my arms. Leaving Noah was the hardest decision, but necessary. Slowly, I began to heal and reclaim my independence.