The Phone Call That Unraveled My Life

I was stuck. Ten years. Ten years married to Ethan, and now he looked at me like inconvenient furniture. My sister, Jessica, stood there, a smirk on her face, demanding my grandmother's antique necklace for her "career-making audition." Ethan, my husband, the man I loved, told me she needed it. His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. He was sleeping with her, with Jessica, my own sister. And he didn't even bother to hide it anymore. When I finally whispered "No," his eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult, Sarah. It's just a necklace," he sneered. He dismissed my pain, ridiculed my anger. I tried to divorce him, but he just laughed, "You're mine, Sarah. Don't forget that." I was trapped, defeated, retreated to the dusty attic, my sanctuary of forgotten things. How could the man I married, the boy who wrote clumsy love poems, become this monster? This cold, controlling stranger who openly cheated with my sister and wouldn't let me go. Was there any escape from this personal hell? Any way to reclaim the life he had stolen? Then, my old college phone, a relic I hadn't touched in years, flickered to life. A desperate, wild thought struck me as I saw his old number. What if? I dialed. A young, hesitant voice answered, "Hello?" It was him. Ethan. Nineteen. My Ethan.