I always thought Collins was the one. He seemed kind, thoughtful, always remembering the small things — like when my cat was sick or how I liked my tea. After a year of dating, he proposed, so I moved into his home … a place he shared with his mother, Jenna.
At first, everything felt right. But slowly, the caring gestures ended. The chores started piling on me — not shared, just expected. I became the unpaid housekeeper. I chalked it up to a rough patch… until my world suddenly flipped.
One day, I suffered a serious work injury — a torn ligament meant six weeks of doctor-ordered rest. Collins promised he’d take care of me. At first it seemed real: he and Jenna carried me upstairs, fluffed pillows, brought me water…
…then they locked the bedroom door from the outside.
I was stunned. Moments later, a piece of paper slid under the door — a homemade “Home Contribution Agreement.” It said I now owed them rent and had to cook and clean after recovery. It had their signatures, but no pen for mine. They left a pen anyway.
They didn’t know I’d hidden a spare key behind the headboard months ago.
Once alone, I quietly unlocked the door, grabbed my phone, and called my sister.
🚨 The police came. I showed the officer the fake contract and my medical notes. Collins and his mother tried to spin the story, but the facts were on my side.
That night, I packed my bags and walked out for good.
A week later, I filed for divorce. Collins fought back in court, but my brother-in-law — a lawyer — dismantled his claims with evidence. Collins lost the case and eventually his job. Jenna was also evicted.
Weeks later, I ran into Collins at a pharmacy. He bitterly said, “You ruined my life.”
I just smiled and replied:
“No — I finally chose mine.”
