“We’re not married, you don’t own me,” he said at the bar when I asked why he gave his number to the waitress. I nodded and moved out while he was at a club. He came home to half-empty rooms and a note saying “You’re right. I don’t”
“The moment he said it, everything seemed to tilt.” “We’re not married—you don’t own me.” Caleb leaned back on his stool, as if he had just made a clever point…









