For years, I managed our home and family while enduring my husband Tyler’s constant belittling. At 36, married to Tyler, 38, we appeared the perfect family, living comfortably in a four-bedroom apartment with our two boys. Tyler’s well-paying job as a lead developer allowed me to stay home, but his sharp, calculated words made me feel like a failure. His complaints, especially about his “lucky shirt,” were relentless. I felt suffocated, though he was never physically abusive.
One Tuesday, feeling dizzy and nauseous, I collapsed in the kitchen. My son Ethan ran for help, and our neighbor Kelsey called 911. I was hospitalized, dehydrated, exhausted, and pregnant with our third child. Tyler, expecting a warm dinner, found chaos and a note I’d written: “I want a divorce.” Shocked, he rushed to the hospital, where guilt hit him hard. He began taking responsibility, caring for our boys and helping at home.I filed for divorce, unwavering despite Tyler’s efforts to change through therapy and support. When our daughter was born, he wept, showing glimpses of the man I once loved. Though he’s consistent, attending appointments and helping, I’m cautious. When the boys ask if we’ll reunite, I say, “Maybe,” unsure if love’s scars can ever fully heal.