I'm leaving him today, and he has no idea. I stand in our kitchen—his kitchen, really, since his mother picked out every appliance—watching Marcus sleep on the couch. Again. He passed out there after another "business dinner" that ran until 2 AM, his phone face-down on the coffee table like it always is when he doesn't want me to see the screen. I've been awake since four. Not because I couldn't sleep, but because I wanted to remember what it felt like to be the first one up in this apartment, to drink my coffee in silence before the demands started. Before his mother's daily 7 AM call. Before Marcus woke up expecting breakfast and a pressed shirt and someone to find his wallet. The suitcases are already in my car. Just two of them. Funny how five years of your life can fit into two suitcases when you realize nothing in the apartment actually belongs to you. I take one last look around. The kitchen I deep-cleaned every Sunday. The living room I decorated three times trying to please Diane, his mother, who hated every choice I made. The bedroom where I slept alone more nights than not while Marcus "worked late" or "needed space to decompress." My phone buzzes. It's my best friend Sadie: "You really doing this?" "I'm already gone," I text back. And I am. Mentally, I left six months ago. Physically, I'm about to. I set my keys on the counter—the keys to an apartment I was never added to the lease for, despite paying half the rent for three years. I leave my copy of his mother's house key too. I won't be needing that anymore. Won't be spending my Sundays at her mansion, cooking elaborate dinners while she criticizes everything from my career choices to my "child-bearing hips." I don't leave a note. Marcus doesn't deserve one. What would I even say? "Thank you for letting me manage your entire life while you took all the credit"? "Sorry I finally got tired of being your mother's verbal punching bag"? "Hope you figure out how to pay your own bills now that I'm not secretly covering your credit card debt"? I pick up my purse and take one step toward the door. "Emma?" I freeze. Marcus is sitting up on the couch, rubbing his eyes. His hair is a mess. His shirt is wrinkled. There's lipstick on his collar—not my shade. "Where are you going so early?" he asks, yawning. "Out," I say. "Can you grab me coffee on your way back? And my mom called last night. She needs you to pick up her prescription and—" "No," I say. He blinks. "What?" "I said no, Marcus." "Babe, don't be difficult. It's just a quick stop, and you know she can't drive with her hip—" "Your mother's hip is fine. She plays tennis three times a week." His face hardens. "What's your problem this morning?" "I don't have a problem anymore," I say. "Because I'm leaving." He laughs. Actually laughs. "Leaving? To go where?" "Away from you." The laugh dies. He stands up, suddenly alert. "Emma, if this is about last night, I told you it was a work thing—" "It's not about last night. It's about every night. Every day. Every year I've spent being your assistant, your therapist, your mother's punching bag, and your ATM machine." "That's not fair—" "You're right. It's not fair. None of it has been fair." I open the door. "Emma, wait." His voice shifts, gets that edge it always gets when he's not getting his way. "You can't just leave. We need to talk about this. You're being emotional." "I'm being free," I say. And I walk out. I make it to my car before my hands start shaking. Before the reality hits me that I just walked away from five years of my life. Five years of loving someone who never loved me back. Not really. He loved what I did for him. He loved having someone to manage the parts of life he found boring. But he never loved me. I start the engine. My phone is already ringing. Marcus. I decline the call. It rings again. Diane this time. I decline. Again. Marcus. I turn off my phone and pull out of the parking garage for the last time. Chicago is six hours away. I have a job interview on Monday. A tiny studio apartment waiting for me. A life that's completely, terrifyingly mine. I make it three blocks before I start crying. Not because I'm sad. Because I'm finally, finally free. ---