Tom’s outbursts used to feel random—explosive fights that came out of nowhere, followed by him disappearing for hours. I blamed stress. I blamed myself. Until the day I found a hidden calendar in his office. Tucked behind a folder marked “Receipts 2021,” it was plain, with no pictures or notes—just dates and small red dots scattered across the months.

But as I flipped through the pages, something horrifying clicked. March 14th: the night he accused me of trying to “trap him in suburbia.” February 8th: when I brought him tea and he claimed I was “weaponizing kindness.” April 12th: the night he yelled at me for “breathing weird.”

Every dot matched a night he picked a fight and walked out. It wasn’t random. It was planned—calculated, like appointments on a cruel itinerary. The next red dot was five days away. This time, I was ready.

I played the part: his favorite dinner, warm smiles, a goodnight kiss. I asked how his day went—and like clockwork, he exploded.“You’re always watching me! I can’t breathe!” He slammed the door and drove off. I followed.