He took the ashes and still couldn’t kill my fire.

There are men who destroy things by accident, and then there are men like him, men who study your softness with clinical precision, men who learn your losses like a script, men who don’t just hurt you in the heat of the moment, but hurt you slowly, deliberately, with timing so exact you start to think maybe it’s you.

Maybe you’re too sensitive. Maybe you’re too dramatic. Maybe you’re just hard to love.

When my mother died, and I was cracked open with grief, begging the universe to give me something to hold onto, I asked for counselling. He looked at me, tilted his head, and asked: “Aren’t I enough for you?”

As if love should replace therapy.

As if his approval should patch the wound left by losing the woman who raised me.

As if asking for help was a betrayal.

He didn’t hit me because of that moment. He hit me because one day, he decided to. Because I breathed wrong, or stood too tall, or looked like I might leave. I don’t remember the reason. That’s the part that still catches in my throat. The fact that there wasn’t a fight, or a warning, or a moment to brace myself. There was just the impact. One time, I had a concussion. I still flinch in certain lighting. Still lose my words sometimes and forget names I should remember.

After I finally left, after I got the dream job I’d worked so hard for, he made sure I knew he still had eyes on me. He stalked me at work. Subtle enough not to get caught, but obvious enough that I understood. I see you. I know where you are. Just enough fear to keep me looking over my shoulder.

He waited until after the split to throw out my mother’s ashes. And my grandmother’s, too. Not in a moment of chaos, not in a fit of rage, but as an act of punishment. A final knife. He wanted me to feel it. To ache for it. To know what he was capable of when love no longer restrained him.

For twelve years, I gave him every cent I earned. One hundred percent of my wage. I worked, and he took it. He paid the bills. Bought things for the house. Played the provider while keeping me utterly dependent. I had nothing of my own. Not a dollar, not a safety net, not an exit strategy. Just the illusion of security wrapped in a leash.

And when I finally broke free, he took the dog too.

And the credit.

And the narrative.

He sent me messages about sardines and new toys and new women, like he was doing me a favour. Like he hadn’t already taken everything and still wanted more. And he did it all while pretending to be reasonable. Civil. Friendly.

“I hope you’re doing well.”

“Let’s be respectful.”

“Take care of yourself (real important like!)”

All while knowing exactly how to twist the knife deeper.

And still, he didn’t kill me.

Because I started again.

I built something out of the ashes he left behind.

I started a business, not because I wanted success, but because I wanted a life.

Something that was mine. Something untouched by him. Something sacred.

And then I went further.

I got the orthodontic work I always wanted, the smile he never let me have.

I started weightlifting, slowly at first, building a new skeleton from the inside out.

This body? This strength? This face? He’s never touched any of it.

He has never seen this smile, and he never will.

I burned quietly for a long time.

But I was never ashes. I was always flame.

And now?

I am every match he fears.

Every light he cannot dim.

Every fire he couldn’t kill.

⚠️ This piece reflects personal memories and lived experience. Some details may have been changed or withheld to protect privacy. Any resemblance to real individuals is unintentional. The story is shared with care and healing in mind.