The third envelope wasn’t cash.
It was a cashier’s check.
My breath caught when I saw the amount.
“This is too much,” I whispered to the empty room.
My phone buzzed.
It’s temporary, Caleb wrote. Think of it as stability. You can’t think clearly when survival is loud.
Survival.
That word wrapped itself around my spine.
What does this mean? I typed.
It means you don’t have to stay stuck to prove loyalty, he replied. Not to anyone.
I sat down hard on the bed.
“You’re being dramatic,” I muttered to myself.
But my body didn’t believe it.
Later that week, my husband confronted me.
Not angry. Hurt.
“Are you hiding something?” he asked.
“No,” I said immediately.
“Because it feels like you’re already gone,” he replied quietly. “Like I’m talking to someone who’s packed emotionally.”
I opened my mouth to reassure him.
Nothing came out.
That’s when he knew.