For nine years, I believed I was in a loving marriage.
Nathan and I married young, right after high school, with big dreams of building a life together.
“We’ll grow together, Dani,” he said. “We’ll study, build careers, and have the life we’ve always dreamed of.”
And for a while, he stuck to those promises. We worked hard, and two years into our marriage, we welcomed our daughter, Ellie. She’s seven now, full of life, and the light of my world.
But somewhere along the way, our marriage began to crack. Nathan started criticizing me more—my appearance, my role as a mother, even the way I balanced work and taking care of Ellie.
“You’ve let yourself go, Dani,” he said one night. “You wear the same frumpy clothes every day. Do you think that’s how you keep a marriage alive?”
The hurt of those words cut deep, but it didn’t stop there. He questioned my dedication as a mom because I worked from home, implying that I wasn’t doing enough for Ellie.
“You’re always glued to that computer,” he said. “Do you even pay attention to Ellie? She’s always alone when I come home.”
At first, I fought back. I spoke up for myself, defended my choices, but eventually, I got tired. Tired of the constant criticism, tired of the endless arguments.
“Do what you want,” I muttered one evening, as I went to put Ellie to bed, already weary of the next confrontation.
