“Tell the neighbors that Brandon threw that grease rag in my face and ordered me to serve them all from the first day,” I shouted back.
When the police officers arrived, Monica was still yelling insults. They asked her to leave the building immediately and officially documented the harassment.
That night, I contacted an attorney named Donald Fletcher, who was a known specialist in family law. I showed him all the threatening text messages, screenshots, and a recording of a phone call where Brandon said he would make it impossible for my family to walk peacefully through Atlanta again.
“Do not delete anything from your phone,” Donald advised me seriously. “And do not ever look at these messages alone again.”
Two days later, I rented a small apartment with good security near the city light rail station. I also got an interview at a prominent design agency. I had quit my previous job six months earlier because Brandon swore he would support me financially. Now I understood that he did not want to take care of me, but rather wanted to isolate me from the world.
