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 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! Aaaa—Aaaa—huh—”
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:
“I 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?
It didn’t matter who wrote it. It was like a message sent straight from the universe. My heart gave a slow, deliberate flutter as I shivered.
I read the words aloud.
“I deserve better.”
Chills ran down my spine. I shuddered.
“I deserve better,” I repeated, softer this time.
My mind wandered back to just a few weeks ago when Albert had asked me, “Do you even like me?”
I had replied, “No, but I love you.”
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. I was only with him for the sake of the kids. In a few years, we would have been married for twenty-five years. And I figured, if I had made it that far, I might as well ride it out to the end.
For better or for worse, right?
That was the lie I told myself. That if we stuck it out, maybe something would change. Maybe we’d rediscover what we once thought we had. Perhaps we’d fall madly in love again. Maybe he’d get control of his emotions, stop being angry at everything and everyone. Maybe he’d start showing me he loved me with little gestures of kindness—a note, or flowers. Maybe he’d stop telling me I’m fat or that he hates me. Criticizing the way I dressed or styled my hair.
Maybe. But deep down, I knew better.
“I deserve better,” I whispered again. This time, it felt different.
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 ten mouths to feed. Ten kids to clothe. Yes, you read that right—ten. One was in the military, thankfully independent now, but the rest still relied on me.
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. A secret. A seed.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the moment everything quietly began to shift. Subtly. But undeniably.
One day, during a cleaning job, Albert looked at me while I was polishing the dining room table 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 I did not care how my words made him feel. I spoke my truth.
It was the truth. 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.
But I knew I didn’t love him. Not really. And I certainly didn’t like him. That was very clear.
I saw the panic in his eyes as his face grimaced and he made the whimpering sound of a two-year-old.
The months that followed were like cooking dinner with the smoke alarm ready to scream at any second. Every step echoed with the fear of collapse.
But 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 complimentary of him. I even bought new lingerie.
But when you know you deserve better, something changes. You stop settling. You stop hoping that toxic patterns will magically heal.
And you start looking—not for another man, but for another life. A better one.
One where you deserve better.
Yoli's Write To Sanity 