Word Count 1315

I came home from work one night to find my door unlocked: someone had picked the lock and broken in. When I left my husband, I brought very few possessions to my new home: a rust-colored futon, the sole living room furniture by day and the bed at night; a small table with a single chair for eating; and a chest of drawers just beyond the arch that defined the two sections of the room.

Now the first thing I saw when I walked in was a soiled white gardening glove on that chest of drawers—a taunt in plain sight. My heart rushed upward into my chest, constricting my breath. I’d felt nested in my new home; now I was utterly exposed.