But I’m pleased. Her therapist seems sharp—smart enough to see through Timmy’s bullshit and recognize the warrior Margaux really is. She’s giving Margaux the nudges she needs, affirming her worth in ways that no one else in her life seems to do anymore.
It complements Alice’s raw, no-BS encouragement beautifully. Between the two of them—as well as Josephine and Stacey, Margaux has a shot at remembering who she is—who shewasbefore Timmy began siphoning the life out of her.
Her session finished, she steps out of the truck, her shoulders hunched, moving toward the apartment.
I flip back to another feed, watching Timmy in the kitchen. He’s clattering dishes with an air of exaggerated care, the performative kind of noise he makes when he’s pretending to be a decent person.
My jaw clenches. I know what’s coming.
“How was it?” he asks as she walks in. His voice is deceptively light, like he isn’t waiting for an answer that’ll justify his next tantrum.
Margaux replies carefully.Too carefully. She knows better than to let him catch a hint of what she really discussed.
But it doesn’t matter—he’s already sulking, muttering something about how she ‘always makes him look bad’.
My fists tighten around the armrests of my chair. He eavesdropped once, and now he thinks he owns her therapy sessions. He thinks he has the right to be a part of them, to tell her what she can and should not talk about.
What kind of monster violates someone’s safe space like that?
I watch him throw a shirt at her. She doesn’t react, just places it to the side like she’s handling a mildly annoying fly.
He puts a blanket on Sabre and she calmly removes it.
He presses harder, sprinkles water on her, smirks when she sighs and walks away.
And then, like the insecure, small man he is, he takes it further. He throws food into the trash. Perfectly good food that he knows she likes.
Every time he does something like this, I think I can’t hate him more than I already do. And then he proves me wrong.
Later, Margaux starts researching reactive abuse and DARVO. She’s been texting Alice about it, piecing together the patterns of Timmy’s manipulation. I feel a flicker of hope as she types furiously on her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She’s seeing it. She’s finally seeing it.
The gaslighting, the lies, the way he flips the narrative to make himself the victim—it’s all clicking into place for her. I can practically hear Alice’s voice in her head, telling her she’s not crazy—that Timmy’s the problem.
But then he walks in. And of course, he notices her typing.
“Who are you talking to?” he asks, his tone sharp, already accusatory.
“None of your business, bruh,” she shoots back, not looking up.
Good. Keep him out. Don’t let him poison this small, sacred space you’ve carved out for yourself.
But he doesn’t stop. He hovers, trying to read her screen, muttering insults under his breath. “Ugly crusty Ron Weasley,” he sneers.
I laugh bitterly, shaking my head.
That’s the best he’s got?What an absolute moron.
But then again, that’s Timmy—small-minded, petty, incapable of real wit.
The worst of it comes when he calls his mother, twisting Margaux’s words into some grotesque fabrication. I can’t hear her voice through the feed, but I can imagine her panic, her disbelief. AndMargaux—Margaux looks like she’s been gutted.
Her kindness was weaponized. Her compassion turned into ammunition against her.
I watch as she screams at him, desperate for him to stop, her face red with anger and hurt. But he just smirks, hanging up the phone like he’s won some twisted game.
“You’re a monster,” she whispers, and I can see the exhaustion etched into her face, the cracks in her armor.