The Night I Locked My Wife in the Storage Room — and the Morning That Changed Everything

When I told my mother, she waved her hand dismissively. “She’s bluffing,” she said. “No decent woman would go through with it.”

But I knew Anita. She wasn’t bluffing — not this time.

Three days later, a brown envelope arrived. Inside were the divorce papers. The reason written in her careful handwriting:

“Mental abuse by my husband and his family. I was treated like a servant, without dignity or respect.”

My fingers trembled as I read those words. They were true — every one of them.

The Weight of Regret

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