We had two beautiful children, Ella, who is now 16, and Noah, who is 12. We had a house full of family photos and memories.
Looking back now, I realize that I had been living in a routine that was slowly eroding who I was, piece by piece, without me even noticing it was happening.
It started so gradually that I hardly noticed. Toward the end of his thirties, Derek began to do what he called jokes. Jokes that, on the surface, sounded playful, like harmless banter between a married couple. But they had a sharp edge that pierced my skin like tiny splinters.
If I came downstairs in the morning without makeup, he’d look up from his coffee and smile. “Wow, a rough night, huh? You look exhausted.”
One morning, when I noticed my first gray hairs while getting ready, I showed them to him, half-laughing at it. He laughed too, but then said, “I guess I’m married to Grandma now. Should I start calling you Nana?”
At first, I told myself it was just Derek being Derek. But as the months went by, I started to notice that something had changed. Teasing became the only thing he said about my appearance. There were no more compliments or moments when he told me I looked pretty.
One Saturday morning, I walked into the living room and found him scrolling through Instagram on his phone. When I glanced over his shoulder, I saw a young fitness influencer on his screen.
Derek didn’t even notice I was there until I moved, and then he looked at me and muttered, “See, that’s how you take care of yourself.”
