My newborn daughter slept against my chest. This was my house. The one I had paid for.
And my husband had locked me out. I called Terrence. Once. Twice. On the third try, he finally answered, laughter echoing in the background.
“The code isn’t working,” I whispered. Silence. Then his mother’s voice, sharp and amused.
“Oh, is she standing outside?” “I changed it,” Terrence said, like it was nothing.
“You needed to learn some boundaries.” “You changed the passcode while I was in the hospital?”
He laughed. “Don’t start. You’re emotional. Women get like this after having a baby.”
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