I met Aidan at a beach bonfire—October chill in the air, firelight in his eyes. He remembered how I took my coffee and made soup when I was sick. Thoughtful. Kind. We married two years later.
After the wedding, he asked me to quit my job. “Let me take care of us,” he said. I loved him, so I said yes.
That’s when he changed.
Coffee stopped. Lists started—groceries, chores, dinners. Affection vanished, replaced by silent expectations. I became the maid, not a wife.
I mentioned freelance work. He shrugged, “No need. You’re home now.”
Then came his birthday. The house was full. I served appetizers I spent hours making, and Aidan cut through the room with a cruel joke. “How much of my money did you spend today?” Laughter died.
“You live off me. Not even a gift. Not even pregnant.”
Then my father stood. “She lives off you—just like you wanted.”
My mother added, “She runs this home. If it’s a job, pay her.”
Silence.
That’s when I knew—I hadn’t lost myself. I’d just been quiet too long.
And I was finally ready to speak.
