I woke from a lucid dream this morning. In it, I existed in a small section of an abandoned office building and had to leave, to move to another country. This much I remember, even if the details of the white walls and glass windows are vague. I had to leave. I had to go. I was being sent away.

I didn't want to go, but I had no choice. All was decided for me, as it always was with them.

And then they came, one by one, first my ex-mother-in-law pretending to care, but only there to learn my weaknesses so she could exploit me. She notes my impoverished state and tells me of their and my ex-husband's financial wealth and security, of their luxurious purchases, while I listen, my stomach hollow with hunger.

Even though I am dreaming, I think: This is just like the black year I reeled into the abyss they created, falling, helpless as they stripped me of my home, my car, and my life piece by agonising piece - a bleeding, injured thing. She continues to tell me of things she has bought, terribly expensive, frivolous things. Salt in the wound. She keeps talking, telling me perhaps she might take me out to lunch since I look very thin. All of it delivered with a kindly, motherly smile. I lunge for that love and hate myself for it. Because I know it's a lie. The worst of all betrayals. To love a mother figure who does not love you at all.

For a time, I thought she was the mother I never had. I built her into that person. I baked her cakes, and brought her treats to make her smile. It's my fault, of course. Falling for it all.

It was me who told her all that fateful April afternoon sitting at her expensive design dining table, surrounded by an art gallery's worth of art - of what her son had been doing to me for years, why I wanted to move closer to them, thinking it might make me safer, but it had only gotten worse. I wept the awfulness of it out, panting with fear, an ugly mess, twirling my marital rings nervously against my finger, as if touching them could somehow magically make it all better. I confessed her perfect son was hurting me and couldn't take it anymore, I pleaded with her to help me. To please help me. To help us.

Ah, what a naïve fool I was.

My dream continues. My ex-father-in-law turns up pretending to be concerned for me, to help dismantle another piece of my life that is too big for me to manage alone. He was always so kind, I loved him too. But my god, was he dangerous. He even fooled my father who thought he would care for me in my father's absence. Ah no. Not at all. He would come to me and threaten me to sign papers that gave all to his son and menaced me to cooperate until I wept. All while his wife looked on at me silence. Even she looked guilty. Even her. But I didn't sign.

I didn't sign.

It was he who said he would take me to court, who paid the fees, who dragged it out and out and out. At times I think even my ex-husband wants it to end, but my ex-father-in-law cannot bear to be withstood by someone like me. A mere girl who only writes stories. I was pointless to him. I deserved to be put in my place, and so he took his millions and set about doing so.

How could I ever trust anyone again? It wasn't just my ex-husband, it was three. My family of ten years. All of them clever, self-serving, and wicked beyond belief. They fed on my loss, savored it. Enjoyed watching me suffer, encouraged my suffering. Like a cat with a dying, eviscerated mouse crawling away from the pain, from its tormenter, its entrails trailing after it - they watched me crawl. They watch me crawl. Still.

And then he came. My ex-husband. And this time he didn't want to hurt me. This time, a plot twist. This time he was kind. He said: Please let me help you move your things. I want to help you. I looked at him, saw him. Not the enemy anymore but the man I fell in love with more than a decade ago. I thought:

I can do this. I can go.

I just want him to be happy. As long as he is happy, I can be ok.

So I piled my things into boxes and bags like a homeless person, and the empty office became steadily emptier, the three of them coming back and forth, carrying my life away, kind, smiling, gentle, and me feeling like maybe it will all be alright somehow.

They take the last of my things: my clothes. I go to the window to see the completion of the fruits of our efforts, the moving van waiting to take my life to another world.

I sink to my knees, silent horror crawls into me, familiar, brutal, ice cold. Three dump trucks idle on the side of the road. My ex-husband tosses my clothing into the middle dump truck's box. He dusts his hands, as if my things are dirty. My beautiful dresses spread across the remains of a fractured glass cabinet, pinned to its jagged pieces like dying butterflies. My life's possessions stare back at me, broken, transformed into trash. My antiques, my art, my books. My wine glasses shattered. Chaos.

They each get into a truck, my ex-mother-in first, then my ex-husband, and finally, in the rear, my ex-father-in-law. The roar of their acceleration reaches me as they pull away, the finality of their act pinioning me with shock. I weep, and scream until my throat tastes of blood, helpless. It's already over but I smash my fists against the plate glass, three floors up, anyway. As if it somehow could change things, even when I know it won't.

I wake. Grief and horror follow me. I search for something to stave off the terror that claws at me anew. They are coming after you. They are not done. There will be more.

A detail remains as I rise to begin my day.

The trucks were pure white. Pristine. Perfect. Things of beauty, in fact.

And in its wake - Fear.