The Ghost in My House Was Me - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
You are reading The Ghost in My House Was Me, Chapter 3: Chapter 3. Read more chapters of The Ghost in My House Was Me.
When I open the door to take out the trash, I literally bump into Sarah.
She spots me and immediately pulls me into her apartment without hesitation.
Gently rolling an egg over my swollen eyes, her own welling with tears, she frowns and asks softly:
"Does it hurt?"
Her worried expression takes me back to Kevin when we were newly married.
Back then, we were broke. A-City was expensive, so the only place we could afford was a cramped basement apartment in the middle of nowhere.
We squeezed onto a tiny bed, sharing a bathroom and kitchen with strangers.
The kitchen was a trek from our room.
One night, I was carrying a hot meal back when someone barreled into me. Instinct kicked in—I twisted the dish toward myself, searing a huge patch of skin off my hand.
When Kevin got home from work, I tried hiding it with gloves. But of course, he noticed. I forced a smile, yanking my hand away. "It's nothing," I lied.
Kevin's face fell. He scrambled for ointment, applying it with shaky hands, crying just like Sarah is now. Tears streamed down his face like a broken faucet.
I even joked, "Since when do grown men cry this much?"
He wiped his eyes, sniffling. "Haley, I swear—one day, I'll give you the best life."
That night, he held me close, whispering promises until sunrise.
"I'll never let you get hurt again."
And I believed him. Back then, I know he meant it.
But when did that change?
Now, we're like two live wires tangled together.
One spark away from exploding.
Except Kevin's the silent type—a dud.
He doesn't yell. Just lets off this suffocating smoke, creeping into every corner until I can't breathe.
Until I'm the one screaming myself raw.
By the time I get home, they're already gone.
The kitchen's cold. Tommy's damp clothes are dumped on the bathroom floor.
Dirty shoe prints streak the living room.
I sink onto the couch and open my laptop.
Time to draft the divorce papers.
Let's not forget—I'm just as educated as Kevin.
Before becoming a stay-at-home mom, I graduated top of my class, aced the bar, and practiced law for two years.
I had a killer career, won cases, made bank.
Then I got pregnant.
Kevin sweet-talked me into quitting.
First, it was: "Just until you recover. Once the baby's older, we'll hire a nanny. You can go back."
Then the script flipped:
"Tommy's too attached. My career's taking off. A nanny would cost more than you'd make—it's not practical. Let's wait till he's older."
Our son clung to me, babbling "Mama" with those big eyes.
I caved.
My mistake? Not pushing back.
Looking back, that's when Kevin started slipping away—piece by piece.
She spots me and immediately pulls me into her apartment without hesitation.
Gently rolling an egg over my swollen eyes, her own welling with tears, she frowns and asks softly:
"Does it hurt?"
Her worried expression takes me back to Kevin when we were newly married.
Back then, we were broke. A-City was expensive, so the only place we could afford was a cramped basement apartment in the middle of nowhere.
We squeezed onto a tiny bed, sharing a bathroom and kitchen with strangers.
The kitchen was a trek from our room.
One night, I was carrying a hot meal back when someone barreled into me. Instinct kicked in—I twisted the dish toward myself, searing a huge patch of skin off my hand.
When Kevin got home from work, I tried hiding it with gloves. But of course, he noticed. I forced a smile, yanking my hand away. "It's nothing," I lied.
Kevin's face fell. He scrambled for ointment, applying it with shaky hands, crying just like Sarah is now. Tears streamed down his face like a broken faucet.
I even joked, "Since when do grown men cry this much?"
He wiped his eyes, sniffling. "Haley, I swear—one day, I'll give you the best life."
That night, he held me close, whispering promises until sunrise.
"I'll never let you get hurt again."
And I believed him. Back then, I know he meant it.
But when did that change?
Now, we're like two live wires tangled together.
One spark away from exploding.
Except Kevin's the silent type—a dud.
He doesn't yell. Just lets off this suffocating smoke, creeping into every corner until I can't breathe.
Until I'm the one screaming myself raw.
By the time I get home, they're already gone.
The kitchen's cold. Tommy's damp clothes are dumped on the bathroom floor.
Dirty shoe prints streak the living room.
I sink onto the couch and open my laptop.
Time to draft the divorce papers.
Let's not forget—I'm just as educated as Kevin.
Before becoming a stay-at-home mom, I graduated top of my class, aced the bar, and practiced law for two years.
I had a killer career, won cases, made bank.
Then I got pregnant.
Kevin sweet-talked me into quitting.
First, it was: "Just until you recover. Once the baby's older, we'll hire a nanny. You can go back."
Then the script flipped:
"Tommy's too attached. My career's taking off. A nanny would cost more than you'd make—it's not practical. Let's wait till he's older."
Our son clung to me, babbling "Mama" with those big eyes.
I caved.
My mistake? Not pushing back.
Looking back, that's when Kevin started slipping away—piece by piece.
End of The Ghost in My House Was Me Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to The Ghost in My House Was Me book page.