The bathroom door was shut tight, and I could hear my mother-in-law’s footsteps fading down the hallway. The handle felt cold in my palm, refusing to turn, as if the very metal conspired against me.
“I’m not dealing with this tonight,” my husband’s voice echoed, dismissive and weary. His words hung in the air, heavy with indifference.
It was winter, the chill infiltrating every corner of the house, and now, my sanctuary had become a prison.
I pounded on the door, hoping the sound would penetrate his resolve. But the silence on the other side was deafening.
My breath fogged the mirror, a fleeting ghost on the glass, as I tried to steady myself. The small space closed in, the walls inching closer with each passing minute.
The hours dragged on, a relentless march of time marked by the ticking clock above the sink. Each second stretched into eternity.
I sank to the floor, resting my back against the door, feeling the cold seep through my clothes, numbing my skin.
When morning light finally broke through the frosted window, it brought little warmth but a sliver of hope.
The door creaked open, slowly, hesitantly, and my husband’s face appeared, pale, eyes wide with shock.
