*This chapter contains references to emotional abuse, suicidal ideation, and psychological harm. Reader discretion is advised.

I never told you I didn’t have a GED. I was ashamed. I thought I could make up for it by showing up, by providing, by holding the house together. But when you found out, you didn’t ask why. You threatened divorce. I apologized. I meant it. I told you I’d fix it. I took the test. I passed. I earned college credit. You didn’t say congratulations. You said, “Finally.”

You still weren’t working, so I picked up the slack. I took a marketing internship with late pay and low commission just to open a door. When the checks didn’t land on time, my dad helped us. I worked from home and watched our son so you wouldn’t have to. You said you were overwhelmed. Said you were breaking. So I did more. I always did more.

You got a job at a salon, but it lasted two months. You said the environment was toxic. I didn’t argue. I supported the decision. At the end of that season, you found out you were pregnant again. The news should have felt sacred. But it came buried beneath another fight, another accusation, another time you said you wanted out.

You kept saying you wanted to die. I found notes. Crumpled, half-hidden, still wet with ink. I begged you to go to counseling. You said no. Said therapy didn’t work for people like you. Said I was overreacting. I asked if you were safe. You rolled your eyes. Said I was trying to control you.

I got promoted. VP of sales. Still working from home. Still watching our son. Still making meals, answering emails, keeping the house from tipping over. And you kept leaving. For hours. No explanation. I never knew where you were. It was just me, our son, the dog, and the silence. You said the dog was too much. That he stressed you out. That if I didn’t get rid of him, you would let him loose. I pleaded. I loved that dog. But you kept pushing. You always did.

I started gaining weight. The pressure was constant. Work, parenting, marriage, your moods, my silence. I stopped taking care of myself. Not because I didn’t care, but because no one else did, and I didn’t know how to ask. You called me a fatass. Over and over. Said I was disgusting. Said you weren’t attracted to me anymore. That I should be grateful you hadn’t left yet.

You got a job at a liquor store. We hoped it would help. But when I worked too much, you said I was absent. When I worked too little, you said I was lazy. When I walked out during a fight to give us space, you destroyed my things. My laptop was snapped. My shoes were cut up. The hoodie from my favorite game, the one signed by an old hero, was shredded. I came home and found pieces of my peace in the trash.

You threatened divorce weekly. Sometimes daily. Said I was holding you back. That you had settled. That I was dead weight. And still, I stayed. I told myself it was the pregnancy. The hormones. The stress. I told myself it wasn’t really you. That the version I met was still in there somewhere. But by the end of the year, I wasn’t even sure that version ever existed.

I used to believe that staying made me strong. But now I was starting to wonder if it just made me invisible.

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Sinister