My name is Chloe. Eight months ago, I met a man named Thiago at an international street food festival. I was there with my roommate, Bridget, and he was working at a stand selling these amazing pastries from his home country. He had a charming accent, and I thought he was super cute. We started talking, and he ended up giving me an extra pastry on the house, with his number written on the napkin. It felt like something out of a movie.

At first, everything was amazing. He was attentive and sweet, always complimenting me. He’d tell me about his culture, and I found the differences fascinating. After about a month of dating, he started staying over at my place more and more. I’ve been supporting myself completely since I was 20, and I’m proud of the small one-bedroom apartment I’ve made into a home.

After a couple of months, Thiago was basically living with me full-time. It happened so gradually that I didn’t question it. The first red flag that I completely ignored was that he never offered to contribute to rent or utilities. When I finally brought it up, he said, “I still have no stable income. You know how hard it is with a visa.” I understood, or at least I told myself I did. Immigration is complicated, and I wanted to be supportive.

But then the little comments started. At first, they were subtle critiques, framed as cultural differences. “You swear a lot. Women from my country don’t talk like that.” “The way you dress is very… American.” “You’re so loud when you laugh.”

They started getting more frequent and more critical. “You wouldn’t survive with us back home. Women there know when to be quiet.” He’d make faces when I tried to join conversations with his friends. Meanwhile, our financial situation wasn’t improving. He’d do occasional food delivery gigs, but most days he’d just sit at my desk, playing games on my laptop while I was at work. I’d come home tired after a nine-hour day to find him on the couch, asking what was for dinner.

One night, about a week ago, I finally said something. “I’m getting kind of tired of carrying all the expenses by myself.” His reaction was wild. He got instantly defensive. “So, you just don’t trust me? I thought we were building something together, and you’re counting pennies like a shopkeeper.” I felt so guilty after that conversation that I actually apologized to him. Seriously, what was wrong with me?

This past weekend, Thiago told me his parents were in town and he wanted to have them over for dinner. I was excited to meet them, but then he started giving me instructions. “Please don’t joke too loudly. Don’t be rude. My mother is very traditional.”

I spent the entire day cleaning the apartment and cooking three different dishes, including a traditional meal from his country that took me forever to figure out. By the time they arrived, I was exhausted but putting on my best smile.

His parents were polite, but something felt off. Almost immediately, they started speaking to Thiago in their language. And not just for a quick exchange. They spoke their language for about 80% of the evening, even while sitting across from me at the dinner table I had spent hours preparing.

Thiago would occasionally offer a vague translation, like, “Oh, they’re just talking about our cousin’s new baby.” Halfway through dinner, I realized I’d forgotten cream for the dessert. I told Thiago I needed to run to the corner store. They all nodded and continued their conversation as I left. The rest of the evening went the same way: me trying too hard, them speaking their language, and Thiago acting weirdly different, more formal, around his parents.

The next morning, I was making coffee when I suddenly remembered something. A year and a half ago, after a break-in, I installed two small, visible security cameras in my apartment—one in the living room and one in the kitchen. I don’t check them regularly, but standing there, I had a sudden thought: I could actually hear what they were saying while I was at the store.

At first, I felt weird about it. But then I remembered: one, it’s my apartment; two, the cameras aren’t hidden; and three, they were sitting in my home, talking about something they clearly didn’t want me to hear. So, I pulled up the security app on my phone.

I found the footage from last night. I couldn’t understand a word, but I could feel the mood change right after I left. His mother was speaking animatedly, gesturing around the apartment. His father was laughing. And Thiago… Thiago was smiling and nodding along.

I remembered an online service I’ve used for work that can transcribe and translate audio. I downloaded the clip and uploaded it. An hour later, I had a transcript in English.

And guys, I wish I had never translated it.

His mother had said, in her language, “She’s not very pretty, but she cleans up after you well.” She laughed. “Well, she knows her place, at least.”

His father replied, “She’s like a free housekeeper. Smart choice, son.”

And Thiago, the man I’ve been supporting, cooking for, cleaning up after for months… He laughed and said, “She’s useful. The apartment is always clean, food is always ready. American girls are so easy to manipulate. Just make them feel bad about asking for anything, and they’ll give you everything.”

There was more, much worse. They mocked my appearance, my job, my apartment, even the food I had spent all day preparing. All while eating at my table. The most painful part was that throughout their entire conversation, not once did Thiago defend me. He participated. He laughed.

I sat there, staring at my phone, as all those little critical comments, all the times he’d made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, finally made a sickening kind of sense. He never respected me. I was just convenient. He was still asleep in my bed as I sat in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do.

When I heard the shower turn off, I went straight to the bedroom. I pulled out two black garbage bags from under the sink and just started packing his stuff. I was just shoving clothes, shoes, his stupid gaming headset—everything—into the bags. I found the little box of photos of us together, ripped them all in half, and threw them in with his clothes.

He walked in with just a towel around his waist and stopped dead. “What are you doing?”

That’s when I told him. “I know exactly what you and your parents said about me while I was at the store. I have the footage. I had it translated.”

The way his face changed… first shock, then instant denial. He claimed I must have misunderstood, that it was a “cultural context,” that they were “just joking.” When he realized I wasn’t buying it, he switched tactics completely. He got angry, yelling about how I was spying on him, how I had invaded his privacy by recording a “private conversation.” In my own home. On visible cameras that had been there since before I met him.

He grabbed my wrist, hard. “This is why women from my country are better! They don’t act hysterical over nothing!”

That’s when I lost my calm. I yanked my arm back so hard his nails scraped my skin. I shoved him away from me and told him to get out. I gave him twenty minutes to get dressed and leave, or I was calling the police.

He called me a “crazy shrew” and said I’d be nothing without him. As he was leaving, he kept trying to have the last word, saying I’d regret this, that I’d come crying back to him. The last thing he did was knock over the little table by the door, sending my keys and mail flying. Then he slammed the door so hard my neighbor across the hall opened their door to check if everything was okay.

I just sat on the floor for an hour. My wrist had red marks where he’d grabbed me, and they were starting to bruise. I cried for a while, not sad tears, but tears of relief mixed with rage.

Then I kicked into practical mode. I called a locksmith. It cost me $275 for an emergency Sunday service, but by 6 p.m., I had new locks. Worth every penny.

Around 8 p.m., the texts started. First angry, then apologetic, then manipulative. “I have nowhere to go. You know my situation.”

My friend Bridget came over with wine and takeout. She was livid, and helped me delete every photo of him from my phone.

The next morning, Monday, I woke up to 17 missed calls and about 30 texts. I blocked his number, then blocked him on Instagram, WhatsApp, Facebook, even LinkedIn. I called in sick to work. Around noon, there was a knock at my door. I checked the peephole. It was Thiago. I didn’t answer. He knocked and called my name for about ten minutes before leaving.

Bridget insisted I come stay with her for a few days, just to be safe. That’s where I am now. His cousin, the one he’s actually close with, messaged me on Instagram. Apparently, Thiago told his entire family that I threw him out because I was “mentally unstable” and “jealous of his culture.” I sent her the translated transcript. She was horrified and apologized for her family. At least there’s one decent person in that crowd.

After spending three nights on Bridget’s couch, I was starting to feel a little more stable. I hadn’t heard from Thiago since blocking him, and I was finally feeling like the worst was behind me.

On Saturday morning, I decided it was time to go back to my own apartment. I was making coffee when my parents called. I hadn’t told them about the breakup yet. My mom is the queen of emojis; a serious “We need to talk” text from her is not her style.

As soon as I arrived at their house, I could tell something was off. They were stiff and awkward. Then my mom told me: Thiago had come to see them the day before.

He had shown up, looking polished and put-together, and told them he was “worried about me.” He claimed I’d been acting erratically and paranoid, that I had thrown him out in a fit of rage and had physically attacked him. He painted a whole picture of me as an unstable girlfriend who turned violent. My mom, watching me carefully, was clearly trying to gauge my reaction.

I sat down and explained what actually happened. The dinner, the security footage, what they said about me, and how he had grabbed my wrist. That’s when I pulled out my phone. I still had the video clip and the translated screenshots. I watched my mom’s face change as she read through it all. By the time she finished, she was furious—not at me, but at him. My dad, who had been quietly listening, got red in the face when he saw the part where Thiago’s father called me a “free housekeeper.”

My dad, who rarely swears, let out a string of curses. The atmosphere in the kitchen completely shifted. My mom hugged me, apologizing for doubting me even for a second. “I should have known better than to listen to that manipulative little weasel,” were her exact words.

My dad was quiet, which was actually more frightening than if he’d been yelling. He just asked what time Thiago usually finished work and where he delivered food. We tried to have a normal dinner, but my dad was distracted. Around 7 p.m., he suddenly stood up, grabbed his keys, and said he needed to go out for a bit.

My mom and I looked at each other, both realizing what he was probably doing. We tried calling him for two hours with no answer. He finally walked back in around 9:30 p.m., looking completely normal.

He told us he had gone to find Thiago. He waited until Thiago came out after his shift and then approached him. He told Thiago that he knew everything—he’d seen the video, read the translations, and knew about the bruised wrist. He told him, in no uncertain terms, to stay away from me and our family. According to my dad, Thiago went white.

“You were sitting at our table, eating our food, and then you called my daughter a maid,” my dad had told him. “If you ever speak about her that way again, or spread any more lies about her, you’ll regret it.”

After my dad confronted Thiago, things were quiet for about ten days. I moved back to my apartment, started therapy, and was beginning to feel more like myself.

Then, yesterday, things reached a whole new level. I was in a meeting at work when I got a voicemail from an unknown number. It was Thiago, and he did not sound right. His words were slurred, and he kept switching between languages. From what I could understand, he was saying he “needed to talk” and that I “owed him a conversation.”

I immediately deleted it and told my office security, Ron and Alexis, that my ex might try to contact me at work. Around 4:30 p.m., I was in a conference room when I saw him at the reception desk, talking to Alexis. I quickly texted Ron.

I heard his voice get louder as he tried to move past her. That’s when Ron appeared, positioning himself between Thiago and the office. For a second, I thought Thiago would leave.

But then, a coworker, Marcus, walked by me and asked if everything was okay. Thiago’s head snapped in our direction. When he saw me standing there with another man, his whole demeanor changed. His face got a scary, intense look, and he suddenly shoved past Ron, heading straight for us.

Ron caught up to him, grabbing his arm. But Thiago was like a different person. He was yelling, loud enough for the entire office to hear, about how I’d ruined his life, how I’d turned everyone against him, how I was already moving on.

People were coming out of their offices to see what was happening. I was frozen, mortified and scared. Marcus stepped slightly in front of me, which only made Thiago angrier. He started saying the most horrible things, calling me a manipulative shrew who had tricked him. Then he switched tactics, his voice breaking as he started crying, begging me to give him another chance.

Alexis had called building security, and two more guards showed up just as Thiago made one final lunge toward me. Marcus instinctively put his arm out, and Thiago actually took a swing at him, missing by inches. The security guards grabbed him, one on each arm, and started physically removing him from the building while he continued yelling.

As they dragged him toward the elevator, he looked over his shoulder at me one last time and shouted that I’d regret this, that this wasn’t over.

My boss sent me home for the day. I called the police and filed a report, something I should have done when he grabbed my wrist. The officer helped me start the process for a restraining order.

Later that day, I got a message from Thiago’s cousin. After the scene at my office, Thiago had gone on a bender, posting cryptic, angry stuff on his Instagram. His cousin was genuinely worried about his mental state.

Then she told me the final piece of news. His parents had finally intervened. They had booked him a one-way ticket back to their home country, leaving the next day. They had told him he had no choice; they were cutting him off completely if he didn’t go. His cousin thought he would actually go, as he had run out of friends to crash with and had no money left.

I’ve triple-checked my locks, and Bridget is staying with me again tonight. But if his cousin is right, if he actually gets on that plane tomorrow, I’ll finally be able to breathe again. This whole nightmare might finally be over.