Part 3How to Freeze a Husband

Rachel drove us out to her gorgeous A-frame cabin in the hills.

The second we walked through the door, Chase practically dragged Derek out onto the back deck for a beer and a smoke, finally giving Rachel and me a moment alone.

As soon as the bedroom door clicked shut behind us, Rachel unleashed a furious, whispered tirade, cursing Derek’s entire bloodline.

"Nora, why the hell did you go through this insane runaround? Having me order the coats, wiring me the money in secret—what is going on?"

The parkas Rachel had brought to the airport were paid for by me.

"He wouldn't let me buy them. He said it was a waste of money. If a package from REI showed up at the house, he would have beaten the hell out of me."

Rachel stared at me, horrified. "Nora, why haven't you left him?"

"I tried. The first time he hit me, I said the word 'divorce.' He locked the deadbolt, took my phone, and beat me on and off for three days. He didn't stop until I swore on my mother's life I would never leave him."

Derek and I had married right out of college. Miles came shortly after. I never entered the workforce; I stayed home to raise the baby.

In the beginning, Derek played the part of the perfect provider. But a month postpartum, I accidentally dropped a ceramic dinner plate. It shattered. He grabbed a jagged shard from the floor and used it to teach me a lesson.

My body was still mapped with the pale, silver scars from that night.

Rachel looked at my trembling hands, her own body shaking with rage. "This is attempted murder, Nora. We are going to the police. Tonight."

I offered her a hollow, deadened smile. "Every lifeline you can think of, Rachel? I’ve already grabbed it. And they all snap. No one is coming to save me."

Over the years, I had quietly reached out to family members, to our pastor, to old friends.

Try to work it out. He's stressed at work.

Think of the kids. A broken home is worse.

Every marriage has rough patches. Don't do anything rash.

I had consulted a divorce attorney. I even installed a hidden nanny cam in the living room.

But Derek wasn't afraid. He laughed in my face. He told me that even if I filed, he would drag the custody battle out for a decade, bankrupt me, and make sure I only ever saw my kids on supervised weekend visits.

And he wasn't bluffing. The legal system in Florida requires money and stamina—two things I didn't have.

The last time I fought back, six months ago, he put me in the ER with a fractured rib. As I lay in the hospital bed, he leaned over and whispered that if I ever tried to take the kids away, he would drive up to Boca Raton and kill my parents.

I never mentioned divorce again.

Shortly after the ER visit, Sophie was born. I leaned fully into the role of the broken, submissive wife. I stopped arguing. I stopped flinching.

Derek loved the new dynamic. He felt like a king.

Meanwhile, I quietly took on freelance digital illustration work under a pseudonym. Over the past year, I had secretly squirrelled away about four thousand dollars a month. It was enough to start over.

I had already convinced my parents to extend their snowbird stay in Florida indefinitely, keeping them safe and out of state.

All the pieces were on the board. I was just one move away from freedom.

If Derek wouldn't give me a divorce, then he would just have to make me a widow.