That afternoon, Mark finally texted.

Mark: Can we talk? Mom says you’re overreacting.

I stared at the message, feeling the old urge to apologize creep in.

Then another text arrived—from an unknown number.

Unknown: You’ll never see a dime. Stop making this harder than it has to be.

My hands went cold. My mom read it over my shoulder and said, “That’s your evidence.”

I didn’t reply. I forwarded the message to Mr. Harris, then went with my mom to the police station to file a report. The officer didn’t promise miracles—but he took it seriously, especially when I explained I was pregnant and had been forced out of my home.

That night, in the quiet, I thought about Jessica wearing my robe. About Linda’s smile. About Mark’s empty stare. For so long, I’d believed their version of me—that I should be grateful just to be tolerated.