* This piece contains references to emotional and physical abuse, suicidal ideation, pet endangerment, and manipulation. It is a raw and intense account of domestic violence. Please read with care and prioritize your mental and emotional safety. If you or someone you know is in danger or crisis, support is available.

At the beginning of the year, we found out you were pregnant again. You had just left your job at the liquor store and started working at a vet clinic. You were growing your hair out. You said it was for me, though I never asked. You told me you wanted to try again. That things would be different this time. And I wanted to believe you. I always did.

I was building a business, pitching partnerships, trying to create something stable from everything that had already broken. I overpromised. The deal collapsed. I paid it back. My father helped with the rest. I took full ownership of the company and started over. I was tired but hopeful. We moved states in the spring. You said it would bring you closer to family. That the distance would help us heal.

But nothing healed. The move didn’t quiet the storm. It just gave it more room to echo.

You started pulling away again. Fighting more. Hitting more. You told your family we were near eviction. That I wasn’t providing. That I had failed you. But the rent was paid. The car was only a month behind. I asked for help. I worked. You told me to shut down my business or you’d leave. I took a full-time job and started working nights. You said it still wasn’t enough.

The fights changed shape. You began targeting the dog. Said she was too loud. Too much. Said she made you anxious. One day, you filled her crate with chocolate and told me you were going to throw her in the river. I didn’t argue. I called my parents. They took her without a word. Because everything I loved became a threat to your comfort.

Then the baby came. At the hospital, you told the nurses I was abusive. That I shouldn’t be allowed in the room. They looked at me like I was dangerous. I stayed quiet. Sat still. Held the baby when I was allowed. I smiled for pictures I didn’t want to be in. I didn’t cry until I was alone in the car.

When we came home, you yelled at me for feeding him wrong. I threw the bottle at the wall. Frustrated, not violent. You grabbed the hairdryer and beat my arms with it. I didn’t fight back. I iced the bruises while you told me I had an anger problem. I stayed quiet. Again.

You hated the things that made me feel safe. The Xbox. The games. The small pockets of comfort I carved out for myself. I lied about hiring someone to help with a project. You broke the Xbox. Smashed the router. Called me manipulative. Called me disgusting. Said I was lucky you hadn’t left yet.

You kept bringing up the affair. The messages. That I was a Second Choice. I should be happy with your honesty.

The betrayal. I took the blame. Again. You refused to. Again.

But the worst hadn’t happened yet.

In October, we stopped at a gas station. You drove off without me. Minutes later, I got a message. You were in the garage. You had turned the car on. You said goodbye.

I ran.

A mile and a half. Down the road. Through the woods. Through panic.

I made it in time.

The house was chaos. Juice on the floors. The kids in their seats. You were upstairs. When you saw me, you screamed. You hit me. You said it was my fault. That you didn’t want to live. That I had broken you.

And I believed you. Again.

But it wasn’t my failure. It was the year I finally learned I couldn’t save you. Because you never wanted to be saved.

You just wanted someone to blame.

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I Failed