I met Aidan at a beach bonfire one cold October night. He had a warmth that pulled people in — thoughtful, kind, and full of little gestures that made you feel seen. I fell in love with him, and two years later, we married.
After the wedding, Aidan encouraged me to quit my marketing job to start a family. I agreed, thinking it was love, a shared dream.
But once I was home, everything changed.
The man who once made me soup became someone who left lists on the fridge. Tasks, not requests. Silence replaced affection. I became invisible — an unpaid worker, not a wife.
When I suggested freelancing again, he brushed it off. “You’re home now. We agreed.” But it had never really been mutual.
I stayed. I told myself it was a phase. But I was fading in the background of my own life.
Then, on his 35th birthday, after I spent the day cooking and cleaning for a house full of guests, Aidan humiliated me in front of everyone.
“You live off me. You’re not even pregnant.”
And then — my parents stepped in. Calm but fierce. They said everything I had been too afraid to say.
That night, I revealed I’d been secretly working remotely, saving my earnings. I had even bought him a surprise: a trip to the Maldives.
But I changed the plan.
I went alone. Filed for divorce. Breathed freely for the first time in years.
In the quiet of the ocean, I found myself again.
When I came home, I had no regrets. Only clarity. I mourned the version of Aidan I thought I loved — but I celebrated the version of me that chose light over shadow.
And I’m thankful we never had children.
Because raising a husband shouldn’t be part of the deal.