bought different bread—he sighed. I put a cup in the wrong place—he made a comment. I didn’t argue. I thought: everyone has their own habits.

Then the questions started. Where had you been? Why had you been late? Who had you spoken to? Why didn’t I answer right away? At first, I thought he was jealous, and that’s rare at my age.

But it soon got even worse 

Then I started catching myself making excuses before I even said anything.

He started picking on the food. It was either too salty, or not salty enough, or “it used to be better.” One day, I played some old songs I loved. He came into the kitchen and said, “Turn that off. Normal people don’t listen to that kind of stuff.” I turned it off. And for some reason, I felt so empty.

The first real breakdown happened suddenly. He was irritated, I asked a simple question, and he screamed. Then he threw the remote control at the wall. It shattered. I stood there and watched, as if it wasn’t happening to me. Later, he apologized, talking about being tired and working. I believed him. I really wanted to

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