I met Aidan at a beach bonfire one cold October night. His warmth pulled me in — the kind that made you feel safe under the stars. He memorized my coffee order, brought soup when I was sick, and left notes reminding me I was beautiful.
We married two years later. I quit my job after he said, “Let me take care of everything.” It sounded romantic — safe.
But the warmth faded. The notes disappeared. I became invisible. When I suggested freelancing, he said, “No need. We agreed—you handle the home.”
Except we didn’t. He decided.
At his 35th birthday, he joked loudly: “She’s home all day — not like she’s busy with work. Or getting pregnant.”
Silence. Then my father said, “You’re right, Aidan. She gave up her career—for you.”
I finally spoke. “Actually, I do work. Quietly. Successfully.” I handed him a trip to the Maldives. “Paid in full. But I’ll go alone. You can review the divorce papers.”
That night, I reclaimed my voice.
