I can’t be late again. Last time I was late coming home I never heard the end of it. I even tried to sneak out of the office 5 minutes early so that I wouldn’t have to use the excuse, “Sorry. Was stuck in traffic”. He never buys it anyways. I still cannot believe that we have a mandatory return to work order. I guess that’s one good thing we have gotten so far out of the Trump administration. I don’t have to be trapped in that house with the cameras on me all day. I pull into the driveway at precisely six o’clock. Right on time. I give myself a little shake in the car like a star actress does before she’s due to go on stage. Let’s get this over with. I walk up the stone pathway tall and proud. He’s watching. I can feel it. I walk through the front door and before I can do the whole, “Honey! I’m home!” scene, I find him sitting in the front room. My vintage Oreo cookie tin sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Opened. Fuck. “Hello. Vivienne” he says with a thick growl tone. “We need to talk”. That’s the last thing that I expected him to find. I can feel the sweat forming in my palms, heart eat picking up serious speed, and my feet cemented to the floor. “I can explain” I cringe at the sound of my own cliche words that just escaped me. “I think that I would really love to hear why my wife has a box full of money hidden in the wall of our nursery.” He approaches me with that same wild look in his eye he had just before the accident. “I was going to tell you about it I swear”. Shit another cliche. He’s going to kill me. I scan the room for the nearest item that would pass for a weapon. Dammit. His obsession with no clutter has made it so we have nothing but a couch and a table. I can feel myself start to spiral into panic mode. He can sense it because all of a sudden there is his hand. Right where he likes to keep it. Around my neck. He shoves me back against the door. “Where. Did you. Get. That. Money!” He tightens his grip. “Where did you think you were going to go? Huh? Bitch!” My feet lift off the ground as his grip tightens even more. I flail around like a fish out of water. Unable to get any air though my already damaged windpipe. I glance over to find my car keys in the catchall dish on the console table next to the door. Desperately reaching before my lights go out, I grip the ring of my keys. Making a fist with the teeth of the keys poking out of my fingers. I throw the weakest but most critical punch of my life. Right to his face. I knew I only had one shot and it needed to count. The key goes right through the side of his eye. His grip gives out and I collapse to the floor gasping for every ounce of air my lungs can handle. Bolting out the front door, I make a run for it down the street. Now what?