Then came the night I opened that rustling bag—and found three trembling, newborn raccoons. I called for Kyle, and he didn’t even blink. “Let them die,” he muttered. That was the moment I broke. I scooped them up and ran like my soul depended on it—because maybe it did.

Marla at the wildlife center took us in without questions. “The ones we save often end up saving us,” she whispered. Weeks later, I found Kyle’s journal—page after page of cold, calculated rage. I left, took my name back, and started again. When he called me weak, I smiled—because he no longer had power over me.