We started dating. In a mature way.
He cooked dinner, picked me up after work, we watched TV, went for walks in the evenings. No passion, no drama. I thought this was a normal relationship at our age.
A few months later, he suggested we move out. I thought about it for a long time, but decided it was the right thing to do. My daughter would have freedom, and I would have my own life. I packed my things, smiled, and said everything was fine. Although inside, I was uneasy.
At first, everything was indeed calm. We set up our home together, went shopping, and shared responsibilities. He was attentive. I relaxed.
And then the little things started happening. I turned on music—he winced. I 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 believe him.
