My Husband Took My Fingerprint While I Was Sedated

Six months after the divorce, I stood in the doorway of my new apartment and felt something I hadn’t felt in years.

Peace.

It was small—one bedroom, modest kitchen, nothing fancy. But it was mine. Completely, totally mine.

No Michael. No Eleanor. No one who could take it from me.

I’d bought it outright with part of my savings. The savings Michael had tried to steal.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. His attempted theft had made me more financially careful, more independent. I’d never been stronger.

Sarah helped me move in. She’d become a constant presence in my life again, filling the space that Michael’s isolation had created.

“This is perfect,” she said, looking around the sun-filled living room. “It’s so you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Bright. Clean. Full of possibility.” She grinned. “Everything your marriage wasn’t.”

I laughed. Six months ago, I couldn’t have joked about it. Now the wounds had scabbed over enough that humor didn’t hurt.

“Have you heard from them at all?” Sarah asked carefully.

She meant Michael and Eleanor. The people who’d tried to destroy me.

“No. The restraining order made sure of that.”

After the divorce, when Michael had continued trying to contact me, James had filed for protection. The judge granted it immediately given the circumstances.

Michael and Eleanor had to stay at least five hundred feet away from me. No calls. No messages. No contact at all.

The silence had been blissful.