Sitting at the giant mahogany desk, I stared at the stack of papers in front of me. I reached up and twisted the plastic stick on the blinds, narrowing the slats until the sunlight no longer glared off the computer screen. It was that time of year again: tax season. The task ahead was daunting, and my lack of proper filing over the year left me with quite a challenge.

We had started our own cleaning business last year in a small, dying town. Surprisingly, it did pretty well. We were the only business in the city offering house cleaning, and people appreciated the idea of hiring professionals rather than a friend of a friend. They especially liked our attention to detail, a trait I had perfected after years of living with an OCD narcissist.
Our motto was: “We don’t cut corners, we clean them!” That’s precisely what I did. I reached behind toilets, dusted ceiling fans, and even cleaned the baseboards every time. It was honest work, and I was damn good at it.

I’d learned that level of perfection the hard way. Once, I’d spent all day cleaning, and Albert came home to find a tiny smudge in the corner of a mirror. He asked me what the hell I’d done all day and why I didn’t get off my fat, lazy ass and clean.

I began separating receipts and invoices into different piles, sorting through them with the half-confidence of someone who grew up watching a CPA at work. A musty smell drifted from the papers, dust rising with every movement.

“Achoo! Achoo!” I clamped my nose shut to block the third sneeze.

As I wiped my eyes, a small yellow slip of paper drifted into my lap. Curious, I picked it up. Scribbled in uneven handwriting were three words:

“You deserve better.”

It wasn’t my handwriting. I did not recognize it at all. Still, it was there, staring up at me.

Where had it come from? Who wrote it? Had it been hiding among the receipts all this time?
Had one of the kids slipped it in without me knowing? A friend who’d finally had enough of watching me disappear? Or had I written it myself in some moment of clarity I’d since forgotten, some late night when the house was quiet and I let myself think the unthinkable?

My mind wandered back to just a few weeks ago when Albert had asked me, “Do you even like me?”

The truth was, I couldn’t stand him. I didn’t respect him, didn’t trust him, didn’t even like being in the same room as him. But we had almost twenty-five years together, and I figured if I’d made it that far, I might as well ride it out to the end.

He’d asked me that question dozens of times over the years. My answer was always the same: “No, but I love you.” It was the truth, or at least the version of truth I could live with. I didn’t like him, but I loved him the way you love family. Out of obligation. Out of history.

That was the lie I told myself. That if we stuck it out, maybe something would change. Maybe he’d stop being angry at everything. Maybe he’d leave me a note, bring me flowers. Stop telling me I’m fat or that he hates me.

Maybe. But deep down, I knew better.

“I deserve better,” I whispered. Then the fear crept in.

How? How would I support myself and the kids? How could I possibly make it on my own? There were mouths to feed and kids to clothe. I stared at the slip of paper, running my thumb over the pen marks as if that could somehow transfer strength into my bones. Then, slowly, I slid the note into the drawer beside the paperclips.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the moment everything quietly began to shift. Subtly and undeniably.

A month or so later, we were cleaning a client’s house. I was polishing their glass dining room table when Albert looked at me and asked, “Do you even want to be with me anymore?”

I stopped what I was doing and looked up. I looked straight into his eyes, shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I don’t know.”

This was the first time in our marriage that I did not care how my words made him feel. I spoke my truth. It was the truth. But I didn’t know how to live without him. I didn’t know how to carry the full weight of our family on my shoulders alone. I didn’t know if I could. I didn’t know if I loved him anymore. I certainly didn’t like him. That was very clear.

I saw the panic in his eyes as his face grimaced and he whimpered like a child.

Two weeks later, I decided to stick it out. Because I had six kids still at home. Six mouths to feed, six futures that depended on me not falling apart. So I tried. I tried to be the best version of myself. A better wife. A better mother. I smiled more. I was nicer to him, more understanding, and more complimentary. I even bought new lingerie.

But when you know you deserve better, something changes. You stop settling. You stop hoping that toxic patterns will heal on their own.

And you start looking, not for another man, but for a better life.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The events in this story are true. Some names have been changed, for the sake of privacy and peace.