I had been drowning in numbers, replaying hospital alarms in my head while collection notices piled up on the kitchen table. Asking Leo for rent felt like the last thin rope I could grab. When he laughed it off, I heard mockery instead of fear, entitlement instead of love. Grief twisted his nervous joke into a verdict: I was alone, used, and disposable. So I tried to harden my heart before life could hurt me again.
The truth in that duffel bag shattered that armor. Every deposit was a quiet “thank you,” every line in his letter a promise I’d never asked him to make. I had nearly pushed away the one person still choosing me. That night, we cried, argued, and finally listened. The house didn’t get any louder, but the silence changed—no longer empty, just shared. We were still broken, still paying for a past we couldn’t fix, but now we were doing it side by side.
