I was driving to the abortion clinic because of poverty and debts, but turned back for my ID. In the mailbox was a letter: my childless aunt, whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years, left me her entire inheritance, but with one STRANGE condition…

It wasn’t about the child. The child was never the problem for him. Poverty was.

He wasn’t afraid of responsibility for a little person. He was afraid of financial hardship. And as soon as easy money loomed, his fear vanished instantly.

My child turned from an unbearable burden into a lucky ticket. A ticket to the life Brandon always dreamed of. Life without worries or effort, at someone else’s expense.

And me, and our future daughter, were just means to that end. A condition to fulfill for the grand prize. Listen, what about conditions? He suddenly remembered, snapping from his daydreams.

Anything in the letter about conditions? I slowly pulled out the second letter, the personal one. She asked, if it’s a girl, to name her Matilda. Brandon grimaced.

Matilda? What a dumb name, like a poodle? Oh well, details. We can call her something else at home. Mattie, maybe.

Main thing, name her officially so no one can nitpick. We gotta call that notary ASAP. Tomorrow morning, I’ll take the day off.

He bustled again, eyes darting, full of energy and plans. And I watched him, knowing our shared story was over. Over here, on this dirty landing, the moment he smiled reading about my inheritance. In his new wonderful world, there was no place for me. Or my daughter.

I said nothing to him; I had no strength to argue or prove anything. I just silently entered the apartment, went to my room, and closed the door. Brandon yelled something from the kitchen about ordering pizza to celebrate, but his voice reached me as if through water.

I sat on the bed and looked at the official sheet again. At the bottom, under the seal and signature, was the law firm’s phone number. I knew what I’d do tomorrow morning.

It would be my first step, a step into a new life. A life where I’d make my own decisions. A life where the main person for me would be the little girl sleeping now under my heart.

My daughter. My Matilda. And in this life, there was no place for Brandon.

All night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling where shadows danced from streetlights. Beside me, Brandon slept soundly, peacefully, smiling occasionally in his sleep.

I knew what his dreams were about. Money, fancy cars, a carefree life that fell from the sky so suddenly. He didn’t even get that it fell on me, not him.

In his world, we were one, especially when it came to my income. I listened to his even breathing and felt an icy wall growing between us, a chasm too wide to jump. I felt no love or pity for him anymore, just cold, detached understanding.

In the morning, I had to act fast and decisively, before he could wrap me in his web of fake care again. My plan was simple. Pack essentials, call the notary, and vanish.

Vanish from this apartment, this life, his greedy plans. I got up as soon as gray dawn broke outside. On tiptoe, I went to the kitchen and poured water.

My hands no longer shook. Inside was a strange, ringing emptiness and resolve hard as steel. I found an old gym bag in the closet and silently packed my things.

A couple jeans, some sweaters, underwear, makeup bag. I took nothing we’d bought together. I needed nothing reminding me of him.

Each item packed was a step away from the past. Here’s the sweater I bought with my first night-shift paycheck. And the book I reread dozens of times in my hardest moments.

These were shards of my own separate life. And now I was gathering them to build something new. When the bag was almost ready, I pulled out that same blue folder with documents that saved me yesterday.

My ID, my insurance, my future. Beside it, I placed Aunt Matilda’s two letters. These were my armor.

At exactly nine, when I was dressed and ready to leave, I dialed the law firm. A male voice on the other end, polite and a bit tired, introduced himself. Notary Victor Peterson, at your service.

Stammering with nerves, I gave my name and mentioned the letter from Hawthorne Matilda. Ah, Ashley, hello. The voice warmed instantly.

I’ve been expecting your call. Matilda was very concerned her will be executed precisely. You got both letters.

I confirmed. Excellent, then I await you today. Come anytime before five.

I’ll give you the apartment keys and all documents for inheritance entry. It’ll take time, but you can live in the apartment starting today. Matilda arranged that too.

His calm, businesslike words only strengthened my resolve. It was real. Not a dream.

I had a home. A real home. I hung up, and at that moment, Brandon appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Sleepy, stretching, but already with a predatory smile. «Good morning, my rich fiancee,» he sang, trying to hug me. I pulled away…