There I was, sitting on my bedroom floor at two in the morning, my legs feeling numb from crouching for what felt like ages. My fingers were fumbling as I struggled to fold clothes, hands trembling with fatigue.
The overhead light was turned off, and a small lamp on my nightstand provided a faint yellow glow. I found myself glancing at the open door, almost waiting for the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall.
Every time a floorboard creaked, my heart raced wildly in my chest. If he caught me now, there wouldn’t be a second chance.
A chaotic rush of thoughts flooded my mind. I hoped Warren was asleep in the next room. I hadn’t heard him stir in hours, yet I was well aware of how easily he could wake up. My little one, Lucas, was the reason I just couldn’t hold off any longer. At just eight months old, he was still so small and defenseless. I was on the verge of completely changing our whole life. I reminded myself that there was no longer room for fear or doubt. I found something so disturbing that I just couldn’t bear to stay another night in that house.
“Breathe,” I murmured under my breath, urging my trembling fingers to continue packing. A small duffel bag rested, only partially filled with baby clothes, diapers, and formula. I had my own clothes thrown into a different tote. I had already tucked away my important documents—my birth certificate, social security card, and old bank statements—beneath a panel in Lucas’s changing table. I intended to slide them in at the very end, just before making my escape through the door.
The clock caught my eye: it was 2:07 a.m. Every minute dragged on like an hour, and each second stretched into what felt like forever. If Warren woke up too early, if he stumbled upon me, if he wanted to know what was going on… I just couldn’t handle that, not at this moment. I reflected on the series of events that brought me to this moment. The reality that had broken my dreams. It was the day that transformed everything.
Fourteen Days Ago
I was 35 years old and had been married to Warren for nearly four years. We met at a friend’s housewarming party, where he captivated me with his warm smile and light-hearted jokes. He was a lawyer, self-assured yet humble, while I was juggling a part-time job at a small marketing firm, putting away money to launch my own design business. Initially, I believed I had found the ideal partner—someone who was steady, encouraging, and caring. That’s how he seemed to everyone else, at least.
When I found out I was pregnant with Lucas, he seemed so excited—at least on the surface. He said we would create the perfect family life together. I trusted him. As time went on, we started to notice some small cracks forming in our relationship. He started to pull away at strange moments, showing a moodiness that was unlike him. He would vanish into the basement for hours—well past dinner time, or during the mornings when he ought to have been getting ready for court. I kept asking him what he was up to, but he would just brush me off, saying it was nothing more than some personal hobbies or a way to unwind. At times, he would shut the basement door firmly behind him. It was a strange feeling, but I figured he just needed some time to himself.
One night, I decided to bring him some coffee, but when I got there, the door was locked. I tapped gently on the door, softly calling out his name. “Just leave me alone, Eliza,” he snapped. “Not now.” The sharpness in his tone hurt. When I confronted him, he said he was busy with a confidential project for a client. I had a feeling deep down that it wasn’t true, but I just didn’t have any evidence to back it up. Since he had never posed a physical threat, I made an effort not to push him too much.
Two weeks ago, I unexpectedly got home from grocery shopping earlier than I thought I would. The basement door was slightly open, something that rarely occurred. With Lucas napping upstairs, I quietly made my way down, my curiosity getting the better of me. As I reached the bottom of the steps, I uncovered the truth. The walls were covered in paintings and sketches depicting the face of another woman. A whole bunch of them. Some are large, others are tiny, yet they all share a striking resemblance: a fair-skinned woman with flowing auburn hair, vivid green eyes, and a warm smile. The same face echoed endlessly, covering the walls like a sacred tribute.
I remembered her from a single photo I had seen once in Warren’s old albums: Celeste, his former girlfriend. She had passed away in an accident around five years ago—well before I ever met him. He seldom mentioned her. But now I realized that she was undeniably still in control of his thoughts. He had captured her essence in his art, portraying her face as if she were a cherished saint. I stood there, speechless, feeling my heart tighten in my chest. Then I noticed the date hastily written beneath one of the paintings: “This is the life we should have had—C.”
I felt a shiver run down my spine. I scanned the room with my eyes. A table was piled high with letters, diaries, and old photos of Celeste. On one shelf, there was a small box brimming with personal items—a hairbrush and a piece of jewelry that likely belonged to her. He must have taken them from somewhere. There were recent photos of me pinned to the wall—some taken from afar, others seemingly snapped without my awareness—alongside pictures of Celeste. My stomach twisted in knots. Some had question marks written on them. This wasn’t just ordinary sadness or longing; this was something deeper, an all-consuming obsession. It felt like he was measuring me against her, perhaps attempting to shape me into her likeness. I felt a deep sense of violation and fear.
I came to my senses, startled by the sound of footsteps above me. In a state of panic, I backed away, making my way out of the basement and quietly closing the door behind me. My thoughts spun in a whirlwind of confusion. Why had Warren never mentioned it to me? What was it about that woman who had passed away years ago that kept him so obsessed? Did he really love me, or was I just a substitute for Celeste in his eyes?
In the days that followed, I did my best to keep up appearances—pretending everything was fine—while I contemplated what to do next. Every time I glanced at him, a wave of disgust and dread twisted in my stomach. I happened to catch a phone call he was having with his mom, Patricia. As I walked through the living room with Lucas cradled in my arms, I caught his words: “Eliza can’t be a replacement for Celeste if she won’t even try.” She means nothing to me. I really wish it had been her in that accident. Now I’ve got a kid to take care of, too. “I can’t take it anymore.” My heart stopped. That moment was the breaking point. He despised me, he loathed the child, and he wished that I had been the one to die instead of Celeste.
I covered my mouth with a shaking hand, trying hard to stay silent so he wouldn’t realize I had been listening in. The pain in my chest was overwhelming. That night, I quietly shared with my father what I had discovered and heard, but he was in poor health and could only encourage me to leave. That’s how I found myself on my bedroom floor at 2 a.m., hurriedly packing to disappear before Warren noticed I was missing.
The Great Escape
I wrapped up my packing, slipped a coat over my robe, and quietly made my way to Lucas’s crib. My sweet boy was peacefully asleep, his tiny lips slightly parted and his arms spread out comfortably. A heavy sadness settled in my chest. He truly deserved so much more than a father who held resentment towards him. I picked him up softly, holding him close as he began to move and whimper. I softly said, “Shh, baby, it’s okay,” as I pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. With shaky steps, I rushed out of the bedroom and down the hallway, hoping that Warren wouldn’t stir. As I stood at the front door, I took a moment to pick up a small box filled with a few cherished mementos—my wedding ring, quite ironically, was still sitting on the nightstand. I didn’t want that symbol anymore.
The chilly night air brushed against my face. I made my way across the yard, a mix of jogging and limping, feeling the weight of the duffel bag, the bag of baby supplies, and Lucas cradled in my arms. My parents lived roughly two miles away. It wasn’t a massive distance, but it was enough that I had to maintain a good pace. I was in a rush and didn’t have a moment to call a cab or ask a friend for a ride. The whole idea was to sneak away without anyone noticing.
The journey seemed to stretch on forever. My feet throbbed in my old house slippers, each step resonating in the quiet streets. Lucas whined, feeling both hungry and bewildered by the chill in the air. Stopping beneath a flickering streetlight, I searched through my bag for a bottle of formula. While I was feeding him, I made an effort to keep my tears from spilling over too much. Finally, I arrived at my parents’ porch. I felt an immense sense of relief wash over me. I pounded on the door, tears flowing down my cheeks, my breath coming in uneven bursts. Dad threw it open, his eyes wide with shock. My mom rushed over, and they led me inside. I collapsed onto the couch, letting all the stress pour out in tears.
I felt compelled to share it all, so I opened up: Warren’s strange shrine dedicated to Celeste, the unsettling phone call where he expressed a wish that I had died, and how his mother seemed to support him in that darkness. They were shocked and furious, and they immediately urged me to stay with them for as long as I needed. We stayed up all night, mapping out what to do next. As the first light of dawn broke, we came to a consensus: I needed to file for divorce, seek a restraining order if I could, and prioritize Lucas’s safety. My father was ready to march over and face Warren, but his frailty held him back, and I just wanted to keep things calm. “We’ll handle this the right way,” I said, my voice shaking yet determined.
Weeks filled with tension
I found myself staying in my parents’ guest room, working on piecing my life back together. I came across a local lawyer who focused on family law, shared my situation with her, and she was shocked. She promised me that we could collect the evidence we needed. “It would really help if you could get those photos or phone recordings,” she said to me. I thought about heading back to the house to find some proof, but fear held me back. In the meantime, Warren was texting me every day—insisting that I come back, throwing insults my way, and then suddenly switching to apologies. He never mentioned the paintings in the basement or the phone call. Patricia, his mother, kept leaving me voicemails, urging me to “talk it through.” My refusal just seemed to make them angrier.
In the end, the lawyer took action and filed for an emergency protective order. The date for court was fast approaching. I felt a shiver run through me every time the phone rang, anxious it could be Warren or Patricia on the other end. My dad was really concerned that Warren could take some extreme action. “He’s completely lost it,” Dad whispered. “You mentioned he was creating a shrine for a woman he used to date who has passed away.” “That’s not stable behavior.” I nodded, wrapping my arms around Lucas, who was happily babbling, completely oblivious to the chaos surrounding us.
At last, I made a daring choice: one afternoon, while I was sure Warren would be at work, I quietly entered the house. I wanted to collect a few things and see if I could snap some photos of the basement as evidence. My mom was there with me for some moral support. The door was locked, yet we had a key in hand. Inside, everything had an unsettling vibe—like walking into a ghostly recollection. We hurried down to the basement, only to discover it was devoid of any paintings. The walls stood empty, devoid of any trace of Celeste’s images. My heart dropped, a wave of fear washing over me. He must have figured out that I found them and either got rid of them or tucked them away. The basement had the distinct scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. “He’s covering his tracks,” my mother said quietly, a serious look on her face.
We were able to dig up a few scraps from the trash can by the back door—torn pieces of Celeste’s photo or painting. We collected them as partial evidence. So, we made a quick escape, anxious that he could show up at any moment. That night, I was more convinced than ever that this man posed a real threat. He was ready to hide it all, to twist the truth, to control what was happening. The air grew heavy with tension.
The Intense Confrontation
It was one in the morning. A few days later, in early March, the cold wind was rattling the windows of my parents’ house. Everyone around me was fast asleep—Dad, Mom, and Lucas. I was awake, going through messages from my lawyer regarding the upcoming hearing. Suddenly, I heard a noise outside—footsteps crunching on the ground in the yard. My blood ran cold. Gently, I pulled back the curtain at the front window. In the shadows, Warren stood still. The dim glow of my father’s old porch light danced across his face. He had company. Patricia stood beside him, bundled up in a heavy coat, her face reflecting a serious mood.
They approached the door. My heart raced. My father’s health wasn’t good enough for a confrontation. I hurried to the hall, softly urging my parents to wake up. “He’s here,” I whispered urgently. “He brought his mom.” “I have no idea what they want,” Dad said as he hurried out of bed, clutching his cane. Mom rushed to see how Lucas was doing. I picked up my phone, ready to call the police, when suddenly a loud crash shattered the stillness of the night. The front window broke into a million pieces. My mom yelled. I stood there, paralyzed by fear. Warren and Patricia were breaking into the house.
A moment later, I noticed them carefully pushing aside the broken glass, stepping over the sharp shards to make their way inside. “Eliza!”Warren’s voice thundered. “Reveal yourself!” We should have a conversation!“Eliza, dear,” Patricia’s voice rang out from behind him, “we just want to have a conversation!””
I stifled a scream, stepping back, my phone gripped tightly in my shaking hand. Dad hobbled into the hallway, his eyes filled with intensity. “Please leave my house!”“He yelled.” “We’re calling the police.” My mother rushed in from the back room, cradling Lucas, who was crying loudly, scared by the commotion. It broke my heart to see him so frightened.
Warren moved ahead. “Eliza, you can’t keep running from me,” he said, his voice tight. “You took my son and disappeared.” That’s really not fair. “I need you to explain yourself.”
I stammered, “Can you explain?” After everything I discovered, after learning that you wished I was dead? “The only thing I owe you is a restraining order.”
His face contorted with rage, consumed by a frenzy I had never witnessed before. “That’s not true, I was just upset,” he said, trying to cover up his feelings. “You got it wrong.” “Please don’t destroy our family.”
Patricia walked in, her gaze shifting between me and the baby. “He simply lost sight of who he was, Eliza.” He’s in mourning—
“Who are we grieving?”“I lost it.” “Celeste, the woman he’s capturing in that basement?” The woman he mentioned he’d swap me for if she were still around? What you’re feeling isn’t grief; it’s more like obsession!My mother held onto my arm, urging me to keep my composure.
Warren moved closer, his hands reaching out as if he were trying to grab hold of me. Dad stepped in between us. “Stay back,” he cautioned, his voice shaking with a blend of fear and rage. “You can’t just barge in here and attack my family like this.”
The shattering glass surely caught the attention of the neighbors. I could hear sirens wailing in the distance. A wave of relief washed over me. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder as the police approached. Lucas’s cries pierced the silence. I noticed my body was trembling uncontrollably, yet I pushed myself to speak with confidence. “It’s time for you to go, Warren.” You no longer have the right to call me your wife or to be a part of Lucas’s life.