Tomorrow I’ll tell him everything.
William slumped in his armchair, staring blankly at the floor. His head throbbed from the shouting match, the fury still simmering in his chest. He felt lost, wronged. He’d come home late, exhausted after a gruelling day at work—his mind still tangled in spreadsheets, deadlines, and relentless pressure. When he saw the mess in the flat, something snapped.
“Lillian, why can’t you lift a finger?!” he burst out, voice cracking. “Is it really so hard to tidy up after yourself?”
His words echoed through the room, and the air between them thickened instantly. Lillian replied coolly, almost dismissively, but William caught the glint of tears in her eyes. He wanted to soothe her, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he kept yelling, pouring out every ounce of frustration.
Lillian perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes red-rimmed, heart pounding like a trapped bird. She clenched her fists, anger rising like a tide, flooding every vein. Just yesterday, she’d been happy—now everything was sour. Another row, another nail in the coffin of her hopes.
“Why?” she whispered, the room spinning. “Why do men think we exist to serve them?”
Every day, the same story. Her boyfriend expected her to handle everything—his mess, his moods, his life. When she dared say she was tired too, that she needed care, his response was the same: shouting, blame, cruelty.
Her gaze fell on the pile of laundry she’d meant to wash in the morning. It didn’t matter now. William’s words looped in her mind: “Got nothing better to do?” “Of course you forgot about me again.” Familiar as morning tea, but today, they tasted bitter.
“I shouldn’t have to justify myself,” she murmured, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her face was worn, but her eyes gleamed with resolve. “I work just as hard as he does. My money—my choice!”
She remembered the dress she’d bought last week, the one she’d saved for. That tiny joy had been crushed the moment William found out. “Selfish! You only think of yourself!” The words still stung.
But what burned most was his refusal to see her. All he saw was his own lack—his clothes strewn about, his expectations piled at her feet. Every little thing stacked into a mountain, crumbling their relationship from within.
“Enough,” she said aloud, shaking her head. “I deserve better. I’m not a maid. I want my own life, not this—this servitude.”
She stood, stepping to the window. The decision was clear. No more waiting. No more bending. Time to take back what was hers.
“Tomorrow,” Lillian vowed. “Tomorrow, I’ll tell him everything. Let him learn to handle his own mess. Let him taste what it’s like to be alone.”
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind raced—not with dread, but possibility. She imagined a new life: coming and going as she pleased, buying what she liked without guilt. For the first time in ages, she felt light, even with the storm ahead.
At dawn, she woke before the alarm. Her eyes landed on the stack of freshly ironed shirts. “Last time,” she thought, tucking them away. Today was the first page of a new chapter. Hard, yes—but it would lead her where she belonged. Somewhere she’d be loved as she was.
