Anna looked at Margaret calmly. There was no anger or fear in her eyes, only a sharp serenity, like the edge of clean glass.

“Yes, I slept well,” she said calmly. “And I’m leaving today.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, final. Margaret tightened the belt of her robe, trying to regain control.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” she blurted out with a nervous laugh. “Where could you go?”

“Somewhere I don’t have to ask permission to be myself,” Anna replied, pouring herself a cup of tea.

Daniel appeared in the doorway, disheveled and confused. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing new,” she said, without looking at him. “Except that today it all ends.”

She entered the bedroom and began packing her clothes into a suitcase. Her movements were slow but deliberate. Daniel watched her silently, unsure whether to stop her or let her go.

— Annie, please don’t do this. We can talk, we can fix everything.

“We’ve talked for years,” she replied without looking up. “Only I spoke and you remained silent. And your silence weighed more than any words.”

Margaret stood in the doorway, like a crumbling statue.

— You can’t just leave like this! You don’t abandon your family!

Anna turned, looking her straight in the eyes. “A family isn’t destroyed when someone leaves. It’s destroyed when someone stops respecting the other.”

She closed her suitcase. She took the car and apartment documents, her purse, her coat.

Daniel took a step toward her. “Are you really leaving?”

“I’m already gone,” he replied. “All I had left to take with me was my body.”

She walked past them without looking back. In the hallway, the air smelled of dust and freedom. Each step she took was a clean break from the years of silence.

Two weeks passed. Anna rented a small studio apartment in a quiet neighborhood. It was modest, with white walls and a single window, but she could breathe there. Every morning she made coffee and drank it by the window, watching the slow city traffic. The solitude wasn’t easy, but at least it was hers.

At night, the silence weighed heavily on her. Sometimes she dreamed of children’s laughter, of the clatter of dishes in the old kitchen. She would wake up crying, but no longer from fear, but from longing.

One day, the phone vibrated. It was a message from Daniel:

“I hope you’re okay. The children are asking about you.”

Anna read it several times before answering.

“Tell them I love them. We’ll see each other soon.”

She turned off her phone. Tears fell, soft and sincere. They weren’t tears of sadness, but of relief.

Shortly after, she got a job at a small interior design studio. At first, she cleaned, helped out, and observed. But her eye for color and order caught the owner’s attention. Soon she started working independently, and one day a client smiled and said to her:

— You have a talent for creating calm.

Anna smiled too. It was the first time in years that anyone had seen that in her.

Meanwhile, Margaret grew quieter. At night she sat in front of the television, unable to concentrate. Everything in the house reminded her of Anna: the curtains, the dishes, the silence. Daniel continued his routine with the children, but the home was empty, without a woman’s voice to fill it with life.

One afternoon, Daniel took the children to Anna’s studio. When she saw them, she ran to them and hugged them tightly. Elisa cried, and Mark hid his face in her arms. Daniel watched from the doorway, feeling a mixture of guilt and tenderness.

— The place looks nice — he said.

“It’s small, but it’s mine,” she replied with a tired smile.

There was silence. This time it didn’t hurt.

“You can come and see them whenever you want,” Anna added. “I don’t want them to grow up with resentment.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Thank you. I just wanted to know… that you’re okay.”

“I don’t need to be okay,” he replied. “Just free.”

Months later, Anna received a letter. She recognized the handwriting: it was from Margaret.

“Anna,

Maybe I was wrong about you. I wanted to show you what a family was, but I only managed to scare you. I miss you. If you want, come over for dinner on Sunday. No recriminations. Just as people.

— Margaret.”

Anna held the letter between her fingers for a long time. Then she smiled. She didn’t know if she would go. Sometimes you can’t fix what’s broken, but you can stop it from bleeding.

She went out onto the balcony. The city was quiet, the air smelled of rain. She looked at the distant lights and took a deep breath.

She was no longer “someone’s wife” or “the obedient daughter-in-law.” She was simply Anna — a woman who had found her voice after losing everything.

A tram passed in the distance. Its lights reflected in her eyes. Anna smiled. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time, she wasn’t afraid.

Because, in the end, she belonged only to herself.