He cooked dinner, picked me up after work, we watched TV, went for walks in the evenings. No passion, no drama. I thought this was a normal relationship at our age.

A few months later, he suggested we move out. I thought about it for a long time, but decided it was the right thing to do. My daughter would have freedom, and I would have my own life. I packed my things, smiled, and said everything was fine. Although inside, I was uneasy.

At first, everything was indeed calm. We set up our home together, went shopping, and shared responsibilities. He was attentive. I relaxed.

And then the little things started happening. I turned on music—he winced. I bought different bread—he sighed. I put a cup in the wrong place—he made a comment. I didn’t argue. I thought: everyone has their own habits.

Then the questions started. Where had you been? Why had you been late? Who had you spoken to? Why didn’t I answer right away? At first, I thought he was jealous, and that’s rare at my age.