My husband used to say that I had only one function: to keep the house in perfect order and be a smiling wife.
😒😲 All day I lived on autopilot — as if someone had switched me on in the morning and forgotten to turn me off. The house, the children, the pots, the shouting, the requests, the dirty dishes. And in my head — my husband’s voice: you have only one function. Everything must be perfect. So that he comes home as if entering a hotel, where a smiling wife awaits him, not a living human being.
That day I was ill. Not “a little tired,” but truly unwell: my body ached, my vision darkened, every step took enormous effort. I simply lay down on the couch — not out of laziness, but because I couldn’t go on.
When he came home and saw me, there was no concern in his eyes, no question of “what’s wrong with you?”. Only irritation. He shouted as if I were a guilty servant, reminding me that his job is to work, and my duty is to look happy and set the table. He cut off my words about feeling unwell with a wave of his hand.
— I hate people who complain and seek pity, — he said calmly. — Don’t make life harder for yourself.
He sat down at the table and began to wait for dinner. And that’s when I understood: to him, I was not a wife, not the mother of his children, not a person. Just a function.
😨😮 And it was exactly then that I took a step I would never have dared to take before — and later I woke up already in the hospital.
Continuation in the first comment 👇👇
When he sat at the table, I began setting it mechanically. Bread, plates, spoon — every movement poured fuel onto the fire inside me. Everything was boiling, tightening, trying to burst out.
I don’t know at what moment I snapped. Instead of placing the bowl of soup in front of him, I poured it over his head.
I did not expect that from myself. He — even less.
Silence fell over the room. He stood up slowly, teeth clenched. No shouting, no words. The last thing I saw was his clenched fist flying toward my face.
I woke up in the hospital. White walls, harsh light, my parents and the police beside me. It turned out I had been lying unconscious on the floor the entire time while he calmly took a shower and left the house. The ambulance was called by our eldest son — he is only ten years old.
The police asked what had happened: whether I had fallen on my own, as my husband claims, or whether it was violence. I opened my mouth to answer, but at that moment he entered the room.
And he looked at me with that same gaze under which I had always turned into an obedient doll.
But this time I saw something else — the frightened eyes of the children and the pain on my parents’ faces. And I understood: because of my weakness, they are not obliged to go through this hell. For their sake, I must overcome my fear.
