This year, I’m 36 and married to Thane, 38. Our family appeared perfect, but it was anything but. I lost my patience when Thane mistreated me while I was sick.

To people who knew us, we represented the “American dream.” Yes, we were. I lived in a cozy four-bedroom apartment with two young boys, a tidy lawn, and a successful gaming studio lead developer husband.

Thane made enough to support us, so I stayed home with the kids. Sadly, others felt I had it easy. But behind closed doors, I felt suffocated.

Thane never hit anyone, but his remarks were brutal and purposeful. That doesn’t mean he was better because his agony didn’t show, but I persuaded myself it was bearable.

A complaint started every morning in our family, and a jab ended every night. Despite my best efforts, he made me feel like a failure.

His go-to insult was when laundry wasn’t folded or dinner wasn’t heated.

“Other women work and have kids. You? He’d complain, “You can’t even clean my special shirt,” and I’d hurry to comply.

That shirt. I’ll never forget that horrible navy-trimmed white dress shirt. He termed it his “special shirt,” like an heirloom. Despite washing it dozens of times, I was useless if it didn’t hang where he wanted.

Everything fell apart on Tuesday morning.

For days, I felt odd but didn’t think much of it. I was dizzy, queasy, and exhausted most days. I thought it was a nasty illness or virus. But I kept packing lunches, vacuuming crumbs, and keeping the boys from fighting over their action figures.

I even baked strawberry pancakes that morning to make Thane smile.

I said “Morning, honey.” as he walked into the kitchen, hardly awake. The lads cheered, “Good morning, Daddy!”

Thane remained silent. He ignored us, grabbed some dry toast, and went to bed, moaning about a huge conference. I remembered him getting ready and changing into work clothes for a big work presentation that day.

I regretted believing pancakes or boys’ cheer would cheer him up. My error.

“Elowyn, where’s my white shirt?” He yelled from the bedroom, tearing across the corridor.

Wiping my hands, I entered. “I just wash it with the other whites.”

He spun, eyes wide with surprise. What, it’s in the wash? Wash it—I told you three days ago! You know my special shirt! Today is my big meeting. You can’t do one simple thing?

A storm erupted. He stormed into the dining room, and I followed.

“Sorry, I forgot. I’ve been sick lately.”

He ignored me or chose not to.

What do you do all day, Elowyn?! Wait as I pay for this place? Wyn, seriously. One job. One shirt. You live on my money and eat my food and can’t do this?! What a leech!

I froze. Though my hands shook, I said nothing. What could I say to help?

“That friend downstairs—Saffron, or whatever—you gossip with all day about who knows what! Blah! Nothing gets done here!”

Please, Thane…” I whispered. A wave of nausea and a sharp abdominal pain assaulted me. Grasping the wall stabilized me. My lips tasted metallic, and the room spun slightly as if the walls were leaning.

He scowled, changed shirts, and departed. His departure resonated in the silence like my ache.

I could scarcely stand at noon. Each step felt like walking through water, heavy and slow, like if my body belonged to someone else.

My eyesight dimmed and agony became intolerable. The tiles shifted beneath me, and a dazzling brightness flooded my vision. As the boys completed lunch, I slumped in the kitchen.

I heard them scream. The younger Oren cried. His little, trembling voice broke through the clouds, stinging me with shame I couldn’t stand.

My seven-year-old son Kieran fled the flat.

I couldn’t speak or stop him. I barely recall the sirens or what followed.

Later, I learnt Kieran raced downstairs to get our neighbor and best buddy Saffron. She ran, saw me, and called 911.

Saffron, my lifesaver, said the boys were gathered in the hallway, clinging to her, when the paramedics arrived. I was going in and out of consciousness. Someone asked about drugs, another strapped something around my arm, and Saffron said, “Please take care of her.”

Ambulance carried me away. Saffron kept the boys.

At 6 p.m., Thane expected a warm supper, order, routine, and folded laundry. He found anarchy. With the lights out, toys spread around the living room, no food smell, and a full dishwasher.

My purse was on the counter and the fridge half-open. The floor message shocked him. It fell from the kitchen table.

I handwrote four words before being transported to the ER.

“I want divorce.”

Thane subsequently told me he worried and checked his phone for dozens of missed calls and messages. He called my cell. “Pick up… He anxiously whispered, “Elowyn, please pick up,” but got no response.

He searched every room, including closets.

“Where’s she? Where are the kids? Scrolling to contact my sister Isadora, he said.

“Where’s she? Where are the kids? He asked trembling.

Isadora told him I was hospitalized severely pregnant with our third child.

Kids are with me. She collapsed, Thane. The hospital called but got no response.”

His wrath turned to amazement and shame; he dropped the phone and murmured, “Is this real?”

Thane grabbed his keys and went, shivering, without thinking about Isadora’s comments.

The hospital connected me up to IVs and monitoring. They found me pregnant, thirsty, and tired. Thane looked reality-stricken when he arrived.

He sat next to me and grasped my hand. I disliked his hand, but I was too weak to say anything.

“I didn’t know,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you were sick.”

The nurse told him to wait outside for more tests. Though I didn’t ask, he stayed.

Thane finally realized his wickedness and took responsibility for the first time in years.

While I recovered, he became the dad I pleaded for.

He watched the boys Saffron took to Isadora’s when she couldn’t call Thane after I fell. Thane cleaned, cooked, bathed, and read bedtime stories to the kids.

I overheard him crying during a call with my mother. His voice broke in a way I’d never heard, pure hopelessness.

“She does this how? She handles this daily—how?

The question was like a confession, revealing his hidden burden.

However, I committed to divorcing him. When I felt better, memories returned. After trying to reach Thane before falling and getting no response, I composed the note before everything went black.

After stabilizing, I divorced. I didn’t get mad or accuse. The note said everything I needed. The stillness between us weighed more than any argument.

Thane didn’t object. He had no excuses. His shoulders slumped, as if the fight had long passed.

He nodded and continued, “I deserve this.”

The remarks came out cold and definite, as if he’d practiced them a hundred times.

He showed up with words and acts throughout the next few months. He attended every prenatal appointment, brought the boys their favorite snacks, and helped with schoolwork. Thane contacted everyday to see how I was, if I needed anything, and to deliver food.

I gazed at the technician as he grinned during the 20-week ultrasound. His face was finally devoid of hatred and pride after years. “It’s a girl,” she said.

He cried.

The voice was quiet but unrestrained, as if that one fact had shattered all his walls.

With shaky hands, he cut the chord when our daughter was born. “She’s perfect,” he muttered, emotional. After years, I saw the man I fell in love with—not the one who derided and belittled, but the one who sang to our boys at bedtime and held my hand when I was terrified.

I knew well than to mistake apologies for change.

Months passed. Therapy continued for Thane. Though he never asked for a second chance, I could tell he hoped.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll live together again when the boys ask. Their eyes hold optimism I’m frightened to touch, fragile like glass. Jagged love. It can break but retain shape. Scars, tears, and healing are possible.

Scars trace our past and show how far we still have to go.

I may believe in him who severed the chain and sobbed when the wounds stop hurting.

For now, I grin sweetly and say, “Maybe.”

All the truths I cannot tell them weigh on my tongue as I say the word.