An hour later, I noticed a roach skitter across the bathroom floor while I was getting ready for work. It moved fast, confident in its territory.
I didn’t scream or try to swat it.
I took a picture.
Trying to be respectful of my roommates, I wrote. They were here first.
I posted that too.
I NOTICED A ROACH SKITTER ACROSS THE BATHROOM FLOOR.
My posts continued on the second day — still calm, still relentlessly honest.
See, I’d decided to push back against Jake and Lorraine’s attempts to hide me away by refusing to be hidden.
I had other plans in motion too, but this was the most crucial part.
I posted a photo of a thin sleeping bag I’d laid carefully on top of the bed, because I couldn’t bring myself to touch the comforter.
I think I’ll sleep better this way, I captioned it.
I COULDN’T BRING MYSELF TO TOUCH THE COMFORTER.
I posted a picture I’d taken the previous day of the window at dusk, neon lights flickering outside, casting strange shadows across the water-stained ceiling.
Free entertainment.
I then shared a shot of a small patch of green pushing through a crack beneath the sink, stubborn and alive despite everything.
I have an indoor plant! 
My phone lit up constantly after that.
I SHARED A SHOT OF A SMALL PATCH OF GREEN PUSHING THROUGH A CRACK BENEATH THE SINK.
People were starting to take notice.
Questions from friends, coworkers, and people I hadn’t spoken to in years filled the comment sections.
“Are you okay?”
“Is this temporary?”
“Why are you there?”
“You don’t deserve this.”
PEOPLE WERE STARTING TO TAKE NOTICE.
I started to type out answers, but what would I say? That my husband chose his mother’s comfort over my dignity?
It stung too much to put down in words.
I still hadn’t heard a peep from Jake or Lorraine.
That soon changed.
I STARTED TO TYPE OUT ANSWERS, BUT WHAT WOULD I SAY?
Jake sent me a text late that night.
You really didn’t have to post all that. It’s just one week.
I stared at the screen, then set the phone facedown on the nightstand, where it buzzed once more and went quiet.
That was when I knew I’d have to move to stage two of my plan.
He’d left me no other choice.
I’D HAVE TO MOVE TO STAGE TWO OF MY PLAN.
I hadn’t just been posting during those horrible first few days — I’d also been making calls.
Every evening, I sat on the edge of the bed with my laptop open, paperwork spread out like pieces of a puzzle I’d been avoiding for years.
By the time I headed home on the fifth day, everything was ready.
I expected Lorraine to be long gone, but when I stepped inside, her shoes were by the door.
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