It’s amazing how a simple song on the radio can tear your whole world open. One minute I’m folding laundry, the next I’m on my knees in the middle of the living room, sobbing into a towel that still smells faintly of a detergent I haven’t bought in years. The one you liked. It’s been so long, and yet the memory of your face the last time I saw it—the hurt, the betrayal—feels as fresh as a new bruise. That man I’m trapped with was out, of course. Always is. The silence here is so loud it rings in my ears, but it’s better than the alternative. In the quiet, I can close my eyes and pretend. Pretend you walked through that door. Pretend I could run my fingers through your hair, kiss away every tear he caused, and hold you until the shaking stopped. And then… my mind goes further, to the places it shouldn’t. I imagine leading you to my bed, the one he never touches me in. I imagine showing you what real, desperate, all-consuming love feels like—not with words, but with my body. Letting you take every ounce of my grief and turn it into something else with your cock buried deep inside me. Letting you claim the parts of me he never wanted. It’s a sick, beautiful fantasy that keeps me breathing. That one day, I’ll be clean. Washed free of him, belonging only to you, in every way a mother shouldn’t. But for now, there’s just the empty house, the scent of old detergent, and the crushing weight of another night alone.