I was struggling to walk home with my eleven-month-old baby balanced on my hip, my i:nj:ured leg aching with every step and heavy grocery bags digging into my fingers, when my father suddenly pulled his car alongside me. He lowered the window and asked, “Sweetheart, where’s your car?” When I confessed that my mother-in-law had confiscated it because she believed I wasn’t worthy of driving, his expression turned ice-cold. He opened the passenger door and said quietly, “Get in, honey. Tonight, we’re putting an end to this.”

My ankle hurt too badly for me to drive, so Dad offered to take Noah and me to urgent care. Ethan went inside to collect our clothes, diaper bag, and my laptop.

Linda followed us through the hallway.

“You’ll come crawling back when your father gets tired of supporting you.”

I stopped packing.

“I supported myself before we moved here. I can do it again.”

Ethan returned carrying Noah’s bag.

“Camila, can I come with you?”

A month earlier, I would have been relieved to hear him ask.

That evening, I shook my head.

“I need space from you too.”

He looked devastated, but he didn’t argue.At urgent care, X-rays showed that my ankle was badly sprained but not fractured. Dad booked a nearby hotel room where Noah and I could rest.

That night, after Noah fell asleep, Dad sat beside me.

“What do you need tomorrow?”