And I believed him.
Love, I thought, meant compromise. It meant adjusting. It meant choosing the relationship over small personal freedoms. So I bent, little by little, until I didn’t realize how much of myself I had already given away.
When we got married, he insisted we move into a new apartment closer to his workplace. I agreed. When he suggested I take a break from my job “until things settle,” I agreed to that too.
Looking back now, I see the pattern.
At the time, I called it love.
The Pregnancy
When I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified and thrilled in equal measure.
He smiled when I told him—but it wasn’t the kind of smile I had imagined. It didn’t reach his eyes. I told myself I was overthinking it.
“He’ll come around,” I whispered to myself at night, lying awake with my hands over my still-flat stomach.
For the first few months, everything seemed normal enough. He attended one doctor’s appointment. He bought baby clothes once—just once—and even took pictures, sending them to his friends like proof that he was stepping into fatherhood.
But slowly, something shifted.
He started coming home later.
