Prologue
Camille didn’t leave in the middle of the night. She left at 2:17 p.m. on a Wednesday, right after folding her last pair of jeans and placing them carefully into a box labeled Start Over.
Five years in that house. Three with him. Two with his family slowly taking up all the space she once thought was hers.
It ended not in fire, but in silence. And when she closed the door, she knew: They don’t get to define me anymore.
Not him. Not them.
What came next? She wasn’t sure. But she had a blender, a fridge full of fruit, and a hunger to feel good again—starting with what she chose to put into her own hands.