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.
But after that, I started to fear him. Not his blows—there weren’t any. I feared his mood. I walked more quietly, spoke less, tried to be comfortable. The more I tried, the angrier he got. The quieter I became, the louder he screamed.
The last straw was a broken outlet.
I simply told him we needed to call an electrician. He blamed me, started fixing it himself, got angry, threw a screwdriver, yelled at me, at the outlet, at the whole world.
And at that moment, I realized: it would only get worse. He wouldn’t change. And I was almost gone.
I left quietly. While he was gone, I gathered my documents, clothes, the bare essentials. I left everything else. I put my keys on the table, wrote a short note, and closed the door.
I called my daughter. She only said one thing: “Mom, come over.” No questions asked.
He called, wrote, promised to change. I never responded.
Now I’m living peacefully again. I’m with my daughter. I work, I meet with friends, I breathe freely. And now I know for sure: I wasn’t bothering anyone. I simply chose the wrong person—and I put up with it for too long, so as not to be “unnecessary.”
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