When Derek suggested a month-long separation to “reignite our relationship,” I thought it was strange but harmless. He framed it as a way for us to “miss each other again,” so I reluctantly agreed and moved into a rental across town. At first, I tried to stay optimistic, but Derek barely called or texted. My sister warned me something felt off, and deep down, I knew she was right.

Then one evening, my neighbor Mary called in a panic. “Lisa, there’s a woman in your house,” she said. My heart dropped. I raced home, imagining the worst — a mistress. But when I burst into the bedroom, I found Derek’s mother, Sheila, surrounded by trash bags full of my clothes. She waved one of my bras and said, “These aren’t suitable for a married woman. Derek asked me to get things in order.”

I was speechless. Sheila had always been critical, but this was beyond cruel. When Derek came home, he acted like I was overreacting. “Mom’s just helping,” he said. “You’ve been slipping lately.” He even blamed me for crumbs in bed and sticky fridge handles — things he caused.

That was the breaking point. I packed what Sheila hadn’t thrown away and left. Three days later, I hired a lawyer. Derek hadn’t wanted a partner; he wanted a maid he could manage through his mother.

Now, I’m living with my sister Penelope while the divorce goes through. She reminded me of who I used to be — the woman who painted and dreamed freely.

So, I’m rebuilding my life, one brushstroke at a time — without Derek, without Sheila, and finally, without apology.