every paycheck I’d earned had effectively belonged to someone else before it even arrived.
Every evening had revolved around another person’s hunger.
Every decision required considering whether Grant or his relatives would approve.
I once believed snapping those three cards had been an expression of anger.
But it hadn’t.
It was the first personal boundary I’d established and enforced without requesting permission.
Three small plastic cards.
Three sharp cracks in a silent living room.
Three brief sounds that exposed an entire dysfunctional arrangement.
Those credit cards hadn’t destroyed my marriage.
