After our daughter Ellie left for college, I expected a second honeymoon with my husband, Travis — quiet dinners, movies, a return to “us.” But instead, Travis withdrew. He snapped at small things, avoided me, and eventually moved to the couch with his old Lakers pillow, guarding it like treasure. I tried to reach him — favorite meals, softener-scented shirts — but nothing helped.
He became a stranger, lost in himself.
His odd behavior escalated. He stayed out late, returned with antiseptic-smelling clothes and strange packages.
He spent hours in the basement, obsessing over tools and hair products. One night, I tripped near his couch, and something in me cracked.
I picked up his pillow — it rustled.
Inside, I found hand-stitched bags filled with human hair, labeled and organized. Notes. Measurements.
Tools.
My heart raced with fear.
