The Day The Elevator Broke

“The elevator jolted, groaned, and then stopped. My breath hitched as the lights flickered and died, plunging me into absolute darkness and the icy grip of claustrophobia. Frantic, I called my husband, David, for help, certain he' d be my rescuer. Instead, his voice, impatient and dismissive, carried the faint sound of music and a woman' s laughter – Ashley, his young assistant. "Look, Sarah, I can' t right now," he said, explaining he was taking Ashley, who was faking a cold, to get medicine. He chose his assistant over his wife, gasping for air and pleading for help. Then he hung up. When I finally escaped the elevator an hour later, something broke inside me, but it wasn't my spirit. That night, I watched him from the doorway, listening as he mocked me to his friends, assuring them I was dependent and would "come around." The next day, a photo of him and Ashley, radiating false happiness, appeared on his social media, captioned, "So grateful for my ray of sunshine." My colleagues whispered, friends called, but there was no anger, only a profound sense of release. He saw me as pathetic and dependent, a puzzle he'd already solved, but he was wrong. I packed my bags, every folded shirt a step away from him, and called the one person who still saw me as Sarah-bug. "Can I come home?" I asked, tears of relief finally falling.”