“Pay the rent or get out!”

“That’s not guilt,” Daniel said gently. “That’s what he trained you to carry.”

Tears gathered. “I just wish it had been different.”

“Wanting peace doesn’t mean you invite chaos back,” he said, steady as a wall.

Evelyn wiped her face, turned the phone off, and left it facedown.

That night she unpacked: a laptop, two books, and an old framed photo of herself smiling—before she learned to flinch. She placed it on the nightstand and realized she wanted that version of herself back—not naive, just hopeful.

The next day she met with a counselor, Dr. Hayes. Calm eyes. A voice that didn’t rush her.

“You’ve been surviving,” the therapist said. “Now we work on living.”

They spoke about trauma, boundaries, the way fear rewires the body. Evelyn told the truth out loud—childhood shouting, the unpredictability, the loyalty that felt like a chain.

“This isn’t an ending,” Dr. Hayes said. “It’s a beginning.”

Walking home in bright sun, Evelyn felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time: momentum.

Then, at her apartment door, she sensed someone in the hallway.

She looked up—and froze.

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