At first, I truly believed the fault lay with me. That I was born wrong—clumsy, unfeminine, inept. And he… he merely noticed, cared, wanted me to improve. But after two years, it was as if scales fell from my eyes: I realised the problem wasn’t me at all. It was him, my own husband, who scrutinised me daily as though with a magnifying glass, always finding fault—all under the guise of “kindness.”
He insisted his nitpicking was for my own good. If not him, he’d say, someone else would surely point out my flaws, and it would hurt far worse. But as my closest confidant, his words were meant to help. A convenient stance, wasn’t it?
His first “advice” was about my walk—too lumbering, my posture too slouched. Delivered with a smirk, as if joking. But I, impressionable, took it as gospel. I scrambled to fix myself, signing up for swimming, then ballroom dancing. All to become more graceful. It felt vital.
Months passed. I noticed changes, even colleagues remarked I seemed to bloom. And him? A detached nod. “Well done. Keep at it.” No warmth, no acknowledgment—as if my effort was expected.
Then, a new “flaw”: my voice. “Too shrill,” “grating,” “like a primary school teacher’s.” Again, couched in humour, half-smiling. But it stung. I grew quiet on calls, muted around coworkers. I even took voice lessons. The tutor frowned. “You sound perfectly normal. Who put this nonsense in your head?” But by then, I was convinced *I* was the issue. His every word was truth.
The pattern continued. My cheeks “too round,” my rare makeup “tacky.” He criticised my cooking, my laundry piles, my laugh—every part of the woman he claimed to “love.” When I confronted him, asking if he even wanted to stay, he was wounded. “How could you? I only want what’s best!”
Yet even my enemies never spat such venom as the man who called himself my husband. Once, when I retorted that *he* could stand to lose a few pounds himself, he froze, then hissed, “I didn’t expect *this* from you.”
That’s when I understood. He wanted a martyr—docile, indebted for his “love” despite her “imperfections.” But I am no martyr. I refuse to shrink, to apologise, to twist myself into his mould. I want to *live*. To breathe.
I filed for divorce. He still stews in silence, not a word spoken. But it no longer matters. What does? I remember how it feels to be *me*. And that’s enough.
