Before I could set the phone down, the screen lit up again.

It was an incoming call from an unrecognized number with a city area code.

I hesitated, then swiped the screen.

“Hello?” I whispered, keeping my voice low so as not to wake the children.

A ragged intake of breath came through the receiver.

“Please don’t hang up,” a woman’s voice gasped.

It was Vanessa.

I could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of a television playing in her background.

“Vanessa?” I asked, my hand tightening on the edge of the laminate counter.

“He’s out of control,” she sobbed, her voice trembling. “He’s throwing things. He says you ruined him.”

I leaned back against the counter, my chest tightening.

“Why are you calling me, Vanessa?” I asked. “You got what you wanted.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “He’s not himself. He locked me in the guest room. I’m pregnant, and I’m terrified of what he’ll do when he gets back.”

I closed my eyes, visualizing the grand house we used to share, now turned into a prison for someone else.