My daughter kicked me out because her husband didn’t want «extra mouths to feed»…

I don’t know what happened exactly, but one of the neighbors called the management office and asked if someone could check on the Harmons. She said she heard glass breaking. Raised voices.

The kind of anger that doesn’t just come from bills. It comes from fear. The maintenance man went up there.

No one answered. But through the door, he could hear Chad pacing, muttering. Amanda crying.

The silence afterward was heavier than the yelling. A few days later, I received a strange envelope. No name on the outside.

No return address. Inside? A note. I know what you’re doing.

You think you’re clever. But you don’t scare me. I’ll find out who you are.

And when I do, you’ll regret it. No signature. But I recognized the handwriting.

Chad wrote like he spoke. Angry. Uneven.

Pressing too hard on the paper. I sat there with the letter in my hands, heart thudding. Not out of fear.

Out of memory. Because it took me back to the moment he stood in that kitchen and looked me in the eye like I was dirt beneath his feet. The way Amanda stood beside him.

Not just silent. But complicit. And now? He was the one grasping at shadows.

Choking on uncertainty. Screaming into the void. It was poetic.

But it was also dangerous. So I doubled down. I had my lawyer contact building security.

We installed more surveillance. Discreet. Legal.

Routine. I made sure the other tenants were protected. The building wasn’t going to fall apart because one man couldn’t handle the weight of his own cruelty.

And Amanda? She didn’t call again. But I heard from the building manager that she’d been walking to work. Her car had been sold.

Their utilities were being cut back. Lights off by p.m. No heat some nights. The cracks weren’t just in their relationship.

They were in their survival. And yet, through it all, I kept my distance. Because this wasn’t about revenge.

It was about resolution. Letting Chad’s world shrink until he realized how small he really was. And letting Amanda decide.

Would she stay in the cage? Or find the key I’d placed right in front of her? I knew she wasn’t ready yet. But the walls were closing in. And secrets have a way of leaking through cracks.

I didn’t expect the knock on my door that night. It had been quiet for days. No emails from management.

No voicemails from Amanda. No more anonymous threats. Just silence.

The kind that feels like a storm crouched in the distance, waiting. But when the knock came, soft and slow, something in my chest tightened. I opened the door.

Amanda stood there, soaked from the rain. A grocery bag clutched to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes were red and her mouth opened.

But nothing came out. She looked like she had run out of words days ago. I stepped aside.

She walked in slowly, dripping water on the hardwood floor. I handed her a towel and we moved without speaking. I warmed the kettle, poured two mugs of chamomile tea.

She sat on the edge of the couch like she didn’t want to stay long. Like she didn’t deserve to. And maybe she didn’t.

She stared into her cup, eyes hollow. He’s not who I thought he was, she said finally. I stayed quiet.

I mean, I knew. Part of me always knew. But I told myself it was stress.

That he just needed support. That if I was patient, he’d come around. Still, I said nothing.

She looked up, her voice trembling. He thinks someone’s targeting us. He’s obsessed.

He’s been going through my phone, my emails. Last week, he followed me to work. Said he was making sure I wasn’t involved…