The morning started like any other—sticky fingers, half-eaten cereal, and the usual chaos. Then came the message from Megan, our new babysitter: “I won’t be continuing. Thank you.” The third one to quit after just one day. No explanation.

When my friend Julie came over, I vented. She asked if it could be someone else driving them away—maybe Dave. I brushed it off… at first. But later, I dug out the old nanny cam and hid it in the living room. The next day, I hired Rachel and parked down the street, watching the live feed.

Everything seemed fine—until Dave came home early.

I watched, frozen, as he fed Rachel lies: that I had postpartum depression, that things would “get messy” if she didn’t leave quietly. Terrified, she did.

The next morning, I confronted him. He didn’t deny it. Said he thought I belonged at home—not at work. Claimed he was protecting me.

No. He was controlling me.

“I need time to think,” I told him, packing a bag for the kids and me. It wasn’t just about leaving Dave—it was about reclaiming my life.

I didn’t know what came next. But for the first time in a long time, the next step was mine.