I said. Derek looked relieved—until the girls started talking about wild local alternatives: firemen dancers, rooftop clubs, chocolate body painting. That’s when he exploded, shouting that he wouldn’t “allow” any of it. That was his mistake. I stood up, pulled my passport from my pocket, and said, “You’re right. There’s no bachelorette trip—because no one’s getting married. I know what you did.”He tried to argue, but it was over. I told him to pack and leave. The lease was in my name. That trip became more than a celebration—it was a turning point. On the beach under the stars,

I thought about all the times I’d let his jealousy silence me. Not anymore. Months later, I met someone at a pottery studio. He admired my lopsided mug from the trip like it was a masterpiece. When he invited me to a ceramics conference in Vancouver, I didn’t hesitate.This time, I had my passport—and my freedom.