People walked through the little park across the street, and stood at crosswalks, and lived their lives — a whole world of people going about their business, moving forward, none of them waiting for anyone’s permission to do so.

For five years, I had forgotten that this was allowed.

I had lived as though my right to move forward, to earn, to keep what I made, to be treated as a person, was a privilege that Julian and Fiona granted me and could revoke, and that my job was to be grateful for it and to keep earning it by never, ever objecting.

For five years, the two of them had worked, patiently and daily, to make me feel small.

They had locked me in the dark, certain that if they stripped away enough of my dignity, I would settle permanently into the role of the obedient, silent, useful victim, and never leave, because a woman with no dignity has nowhere to go.

They had believed, right up until the end, that ordering me to cook sixty dishes was a demonstration of their absolute and permanent power over me.