She swung her legs out of bed, clearly done with my entire existence. "I don't have time for this," she muttered, heading toward the bathroom. "Of course not," I said. "You've got to get to work."
"Wouldn't want to keep your boss waiting." Her hand froze on the door handle. Bingo. She turned around, fire in her eyes.
"You're not funny." "Oh, I disagree," I said, grinning. "I'm hilarious. You just lost your sense of humor around the same time you lost your moral compass."
She disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door. The sound echoed through the house, but it didn't shake me. I felt good. Not healed, not happy, but powerful.
Like a man who'd stopped drowning and realized he could stand up in the water the whole time. I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and laughed when I saw her meal-prepped lunches neatly stacked on the top shelf. All those color-coded containers for a woman who couldn't organize her conscience. I pulled one out, labeled Tuesday Tuna Salad, and fed it to Milo, who wagged his tail like he just inherited wealth.
"Enjoy it, buddy," I said. "You're eating guilt-free." The rest of the morning was quiet. Too quiet.
She got dressed in silence, doing that thing where she pretends to be mad to cover up being caught. Every move she made screamed, "I'm the victim here." She grabbed her purse, avoided eye contact, and headed for the door. "Hey," I said as she reached for the handle.
She paused. "What?" "You forgot something." She turned, confused.
I lifted her empty coffee mug. "Your cup. Thought you might want to take it with you. Symbolic, since it's as empty as your apologies."
Her mouth fell open. No words, no defense. Just one sharp exhale through her nose before she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. And just like that, I was alone.
For the first time, the silence didn't hurt. It hummed. The air felt lighter. My kitchen wasn't a crime scene anymore.
It was the headquarters for Operation Bye-Bye Belinda. I cleaned the mug she didn't drink from, wiped the counter, and caught my reflection in the window. I looked tired, sure, but there was something else there, too. Focus.
The kind that comes when a storm clears and you can finally see the wreckage you're going to rebuild from. I picked up my phone, opened a note, and started typing. Phase One: Mental detachment complete. Phase Two: Information gathering in progress.
Phase Three: Legal execution pending. Yeah, it was dramatic, but so was she, and I was done being the supporting character in her show. I spent the rest of the morning doing little acts of quiet rebellion. Canceled her streaming subscriptions.
Changed the Netflix password from BelindaBaby to TryAgainLiar123. Unlinked her Amazon account. Even changed the smart-home voice to male and renamed it Karma.
So now, whenever she'd say, "Alexa," the voice would respond, "I think you mean consequences." It was petty. Beautifully petty. Around 10:00 a.m., Tar called.