Breaking the Cycle

When she showed up, she didn’t knock. She stormed up the porch like she still

owned the place. Her eyes were red, but her voice? Sharp. Controlled.

Like she’d practiced this speech in the car. “Ryan, move.

I’m not taking these.” She pointed at the bags like they offended her. I stayed in the

doorway. Calm. Silent. And that made her even angrier.

“You’re seriously ending this over ONE argument?” One argument? It had been dozens.

All the “tests,” the guilt trips, the threats—it all collapsed into one moment.

I said, “I’m ending it because you only care when you’re losing.” She froze.