My name is Rachel Donovan, I am thirty two years old, and for a long time I believed that my life was one of those small stories that no one looks twice at, a modest house in Phoenix, Arizona, a hard working husband, a three year old son, and a routine made up of hot meals, ironed shirts, and dreams that I kept postponing.
My husband’s name was Ethan Caldwell, and he worked as the director of a small construction company that he always claimed was barely surviving under constant pressure and debt.
He used to tell me that every dollar he earned went straight into materials, permits, payroll, and loans that never seemed to end, and I believed every word he said without question.
I believed him when he came home late with a tense face and sharp tone, and I believed him when he raised his voice over small things and blamed his stress on work.
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