Then I started catching myself making excuses before I even said anything.

He started picking on the food. It was either too salty, or not salty enough, or “it used to be better.” One day, I played some old songs I loved. He came into the kitchen and said, “Turn that off. Normal people don’t listen to that kind of stuff.” I turned it off. And for some reason, I felt so empty.

The first real breakdown happened suddenly. He was irritated, I asked a simple question, and he screamed. Then he threw the remote control at the wall. It shattered. I stood there and watched, as if it wasn’t happening to me. Later, he apologized, talking about being tired and working. I believed him. I really wanted to believe him.

But after that, I started to fear him. Not his blows—there weren’t any. I feared his mood. I walked more quietly, spoke less, tried to be comfortable. The more I tried, the angrier he got. The quieter I became, the louder he screamed.