A year ago, I would’ve said my husband was one of the good ones. He made coffee, kissed my forehead, rubbed my back, and cried when our daughter Isla was born. It felt like real partnership.
But over time, things shifted — or maybe I just stopped ignoring the signs. It started with early morning disturbances: lights, drawers, whispering questions. At first, it seemed innocent. By the fifth time, it didn’t.
While I juggled a teething baby, two sick older kids, and sleepless nights, he kept waking me up — always with an excuse. One morning, sick and exhausted, I snapped. He dismissed me: “You’re just home. It’s not like you have to be up for anything important.”
That’s when it clicked. He wasn’t being careless — he was being intentional. His version of “balance” meant making sure I was just as tired as he was, even if my days were already overflowing.
He didn’t help with Isla or my kids. Didn’t contribute to my schooling or their needs. I was in college full-time, managing the home, and building a future — alone.
So I stopped asking for fairness. I started preparing. Counseling, legal advice, backup plans. By the time I filed for divorce, I wasn’t angry. I was done.
When served, he said, “It’s not like I hit you. I just wanted things to feel fair.”
But fairness isn’t dragging someone down — it’s lifting each other up.
Now, I sleep. I study. I work. I parent. And I rest.
He asked later, “Was it really that bad?”
I told him the truth: “No — it was worse. You just never stayed awake long enough to see it.”