I called it my escape fund, tucked away at the back of my wardrobe, hidden behind my clothes. He never bothered to look there.
It started small—just a few coins at first, the odd bit of change from shopping. Then, whenever I could, I’d slip a note in. A five here, a ten there. Anything I could spare.
Any spare change I had went straight into my secret stash.
Every time I added to it, I felt a flicker of hope. A tiny reminder that I wasn’t completely trapped. That one day, I’d have enough.
Enough to leave.
Enough to find my own place away from him.
Some nights, I’d sit on the floor of the wardrobe, pull out my stash, and count it in the dim light. My hands would shake as I smoothed out the notes, whispering the total under my breath. It was never enough. But it was something.
I had to be careful. He watched everything. If he caught me with extra money, he’d question it, demand to know where it came from. Sometimes he’d check my purse, count what I had left after shopping. “Give it here,” he’d say, holding out his hand like I owed him.
So I lied. Said I’d spent more than I had. Pretended I was broke.
I wasn’t broke. I was saving.
Saving for the day I wouldn’t have to lie anymore.
The day I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder, or flinch when the front door opened, or feel the weight of his control pressing down on me.
One day, I’d save up enough to break free.
And when that day came, he wouldn’t even see it coming.