It wasn’t just about losing my space. It wasn’t even about Doreen. It was about Jake.

For years, I had been accommodating. For years, I had ignored Doreen’s passive-aggressive remarks, letting them slide.

I married Jake because I believed he saw me, because I believed he valued me.

Now? It was time for a conversation he wouldn’t forget.

When I stepped through the front door, Jake was already waiting.

Jake exhaled as I stepped through the door. “You finally came back. You didn’t have to leave,” he said, his tone unreadable.

I crossed my arms. “Jake, you stood by and let her erase me from our home. You didn’t stop it.”

“I was just trying to keep the peace,” he muttered.

Silence stretched between us.

“She left early, by the way,” he said eventually. “Said she couldn’t relax unless everything was cleaned and done for her. She overstepped, Phoebe.”

I held his gaze. “Yeah, Jake. She did. And so did you.”

His shoulders sagged. When he finally met my eyes, he looked drained. “I hate that you felt like you had to leave.”

I studied him, searching for sincerity. He meant it.

After a moment, he sighed. “I’ll order takeout.”

“Fine by me,” I said.

Then I walked past him, back to our bedroom—where my clothes were back in place, my things were right where they belonged. And, finally, so was I.

What would you have done?