At first, I really thought the problem was me. That I was born wrong—clumsy, unfeminine, useless. And him? Well, he was just *noticing*, caring, trying to help me improve. But two years in, it hit me like a ton of bricks—it wasn’t me at all. It was him, my own husband, inspecting me under a microscope every day, looking for things to nitpick—all under the guise of *helping* me.
He’d say his constant critiques were for my own good. That if he didn’t point out my flaws, someone else would, and *that* would hurt worse. But since he was my husband, I should take it as love. Convenient, right?
The first “suggestion” was about my walk—too heavy-footed, posture not graceful enough. Said with a laugh, like it was just banter. But I took it to heart. I signed up for swimming, then ballroom dancing, desperate to fix myself. Months later, colleagues even said I looked brighter, more confident. And him? A shrug. “Good. Keep it up.” No warmth, like it was the bare minimum.
Then came the next “issue”—my voice. “Too shrill,” “grating,” “sounds like a primary school teacher.” Again, all masked as teasing. I started whispering at work, even took singing lessons. The tutor just frowned. “Your voice is fine—who told you otherwise?” But by then, I believed *I* was the problem. Every dig sank deep.
It snowballed. My cheeks were “too round,” my minimal makeup “tacky.” He critiqued my cooking, how I folded laundry, even my *laugh*. Everything about me—the woman he supposedly loved—was wrong. When I finally confronted him, asking if he just wanted out, he acted wounded. “How could you? I only want what’s best for you!”
Funny—even my enemies never tore me down like the man who vowed to love me. Once, I snapped back, pointing out *he’d* put on weight. He froze, then hissed, “I never expected *this* from you.”
That’s when I knew. He didn’t want a wife—he wanted a project. Someone grateful just to be tolerated. But I’m not a fixer-upper. I stopped apologising, stopped shrinking. I wanted to *live*.
So I filed for divorce. He’s still stewing in silence. But it doesn’t matter. For the first time in years, I feel like *me*. And that’s enough.
