“You always do this,” he went on, pacing the small kitchen. “You pretend you’re helpless, like everyone owes you something.”
I shook my head slowly.
“No,” I said. “What I’ve been doing… is tolerating things I never should have.”
Those words surprised even me.
Because the moment they left my mouth, I realized they were true.
For years I had told myself it was temporary. That he was stressed. That marriage had changed him. That if I just tried harder — cooked better meals, stayed quiet, didn’t argue — things would improve.
But standing there with my throat still aching from his grip, the illusion finally collapsed.
Nothing was going to improve.
Unless I changed something.
My son stopped pacing and stared at me suspiciously.
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