Everyone Thought I Married The Perfect Gentleman. For 7 Years, I Lived A Nightmare Hidden Behind Flowers And Polished Doors. Then One Broken Dish Exposed The Monster Within. Am I Wrong For Wanting Him To Die Alone?

A Thanksgiving to Remember

What happened in my kitchen that Thanksgiving evening in 1987 changed the entire course of my life. I was 34 years old, 8 months pregnant with my second child, and I had just dropped a ceramic serving dish that had belonged to my mother-in-law’s grandmother.

But let me start from the beginning because you need to understand how I ended up in that kitchen with that man, in that house that never truly felt like mine. I met my husband Richard at a church social in Columbus, Ohio in the spring of 1979.

I was 26, working as a bank teller, and still living with my widowed mother in a small apartment on the east side of town. Richard was 31, an accountant at a manufacturing company, and he seemed like everything I had ever prayed for.

He was tall, well-dressed, and spoke with such confidence. When he asked me to dance that evening, I felt like the luckiest woman in the room. He told me I had the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

He asked for my phone number before the night was over, and I gave it to him with trembling hands.

The Perfect Gentleman

Our courtship was a whirlwind. Richard took me to nice restaurants, bought me flowers every week, and treated my mother with such respect. He opened doors for me, pulled out my chair, and never once raised his voice.

My mother adored him; my friends were jealous. Everyone said I had found myself a real gentleman. What I didn’t know then was that I had only met one version of Richard: the version he wanted the world to see.

We got married in October of 1980, a small ceremony at our church followed by a reception at his mother’s house. His mother Dorothy had insisted on hosting. She had also insisted on choosing the menu, the decorations, and even had opinions about my wedding dress.

Richard said it was just because she was excited. He said she had always dreamed of planning her only son’s wedding. He asked me to be patient with her, so I was patient.

After the wedding, Richard and I moved into a house just three blocks from Dorothy’s home. Richard said it made sense because he could check on her easily. She was a widow after all, and her health wasn’t the best.

I understood. I was a good wife. I wanted to make him happy.

The Mask Slips

The first time I saw the other Richard was about 6 months into our marriage. I had rearranged the living room furniture while he was at work; I thought it would be a nice surprise. I was so proud of how it looked.

When Richard came home and saw what I had done, his face changed. It was like watching a mask slip. His eyes went cold, his jaw tightened, and he said in a voice I had never heard before,

“Who told you that you could move things around in my house?”

I laughed nervously, thinking he was joking.

“I just thought it would look nicer this way,”

I said. He walked toward me slowly.

“Did I ask for your opinion about how the house should look?”

I felt my heart start to race.

“No, but I thought…”

“That’s your problem,”

He interrupted.

“You thought. You didn’t ask me. You didn’t consider what I might want. You just did whatever you pleased.”

He made me move every single piece of furniture back to exactly where it had been. It took me 2 hours. He stood there and watched the entire time, pointing out when something wasn’t in the exact right spot.

When I was finished, he smiled like nothing had happened and asked what was for dinner. I told myself it was just stress from work. I told myself every marriage had its difficult moments.

Isolation and Criticism

I told myself I had overstepped and needed to be more considerate of his feelings. I was so young. I was so foolish. I was so desperate to believe I hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

Things didn’t get better; they got worse slowly, like a frog in water that’s gradually brought to a boil. Richard criticized how I cooked, how I cleaned, how I dressed, how I spoke. Nothing I did was ever good enough.

And Dorothy, my mother-in-law, seemed to agree with him on everything. She came over almost every day. She would inspect my housekeeping, comment on the dust she found on the bookshelf, the streaks she saw on the windows, the way I folded Richard’s shirts incorrectly.

She told me I was lucky her son had chosen me because, frankly, she had hoped he would marry someone with better breeding. When I complained to Richard about his mother’s comments, he looked at me like I had lost my mind.

“My mother is only trying to help you,”

He said.

“You should be grateful. Most mothers-in-law wouldn’t care enough to teach you how to be a proper wife.”

I stopped complaining after that.

A Devastating Loss

My mother passed away in the summer of 1983. A stroke took her quickly, before I could even say goodbye. I was devastated.

She had been my rock, my confidant, my best friend, and now she was gone and I had never felt more alone. Richard didn’t want me to take time off work to grieve; he said we couldn’t afford it.

He said death was a part of life and I needed to move on. When I cried at night, he told me I was being dramatic and that my tears were keeping him awake. Dorothy said my mother was in a better place now and that I should focus on my responsibilities as a wife instead of wallowing in self-pity.

I inherited my mother’s small savings and her modest jewelry collection. Richard took the money and put it in his account. He said it was for safekeeping.

He said I wasn’t good with finances. He said a wife’s money was her husband’s money anyway. I never saw a penny of it again.