Three months after the wedding, Alex and I moved into our new apartment. We split the mortgage, but my parents covered the down payment. My dad handed me the check and said, “Don’t ask, don’t argue. Just know we love you.” I never imagined that love would be tested so quickly.

Alex’s mother, Barbara, never treated our place like a home—only a property she deserved. At our housewarming, she raised a glass and suggested we give the apartment to Katie, Alex’s sister, who was struggling with three kids. I laughed, thinking it was a joke—until Alex agreed.

“You picked everything. I want a place where I get a say,” he said.

It wasn’t spontaneous. They’d planned this. But I had planned, too.

At my mother’s signal, I handed Alex the deed—my name only. My parents made sure of it. He looked stunned.

“You’re not staying,” I told him.

Barbara objected. “You’re married!”

“And marriage should come with loyalty,” I replied.

A week later, Alex begged me not to divorce him. I told him, “I believe you love me. But love without respect isn’t enough.”

Then I walked away. The air outside? Crisp, clear… like freedom. Like home.