My new husband compared me to his dead wife every day. When I collapsed making dinner, he told th…
“Dinner’s ready,”
I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I made pot roast.”
He didn’t even look at me. He just hung up his coat and walked past to the den.
“Robert, dinner.”
“I’m not hungry. I had a late lunch.”
A late lunch? He couldn’t have called to tell me that before I’d spent three hours cooking?
Before I’d stressed over getting everything perfect?
“You could have let me know,”
I said, following him to the den.
He turned to face me and something in his expression made my blood run cold.
“Are you seriously giving me attitude right now after the day I’ve had?”
“I’m not giving you attitude. I just wish you’d communicate with me.”
“Communicate?”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“That’s rich coming from you. You can’t even have a simple conversation without bringing up problems. Always complaining, always dissatisfied, just like you’re doing right now.”
“I’m not complaining. I made dinner and you didn’t…”
“There it is again. Do you hear yourself? Nagging, constantly nagging. Susan never acted like this. She understood that a man needs peace when he comes home. But you, you ambush me the second I walk through the door.”
My hands were shaking.
“I didn’t ambush you. I just…”
He stopped talking. His voice was quiet but firm.
“I don’t want to hear another word from you tonight. Not one word.”
He turned back to his newspaper. I stood there for a moment then went back to the kitchen.
I put the pot roast in containers and washed the good china. I cleaned everything up, moving as quietly as possible.
Around 9:00, I went upstairs to bed. Robert stayed in the den.
I lay there in the dark wondering what had just happened. I wondered how a simple dinner had turned into this.
He didn’t come to bed that night or the next. He started sleeping in the guest room, and during the day, he’d barely acknowledge my presence.
When I’d try to apologize, he’d hold up his hand.
“I’m not ready to talk to you yet.”
This went on for a week. A week of silence so thick it felt like drowning.
I’d try to start conversations and he’d look right through me. I’d cook his meals and he’d eat them without comment, then leave the dishes on the table for me to clean.
I was a ghost in my own home. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I found him in the study one evening.
“Robert, please. We need to talk about this. I’m sorry about the pot roast. I’m sorry I complained. I’m sorry for whatever I did. Just please, stop shutting me out.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“You want to fix this?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then you need to understand something, Margaret. I gave you a good life. A beautiful home, financial security. All I ask is that you respect me, that you stop being so difficult all the time. Can you do that?”
I nodded, even though some part of me recognized how wrong this was, how twisted the logic. But I was so tired of the silence, so desperate for things to go back to normal.
“I’ll try harder,”
I whispered.
“Good. Then we’ll move past this.”
And just like that, he smiled. He reached for my hand.
He was the Robert from grief group again, gentle and kind. That night he came back to our bedroom.
We lay in the dark and he told me he loved me, that he knew we could make this work. I should have felt relieved; instead, I felt terrified.
I’d just learned a new truth. Robert controlled not just my actions, but my access to his affection.
Be good and he’d love me. Step out of line and he’d withdraw, leaving me in emotional exile until I apologized for sins I couldn’t even name.
This became the pattern for the next six months. I’d do something wrong, often without knowing what.
He’d freeze me out for days or weeks. I’d exhaust myself trying to fix it, trying to be better.
Eventually, he’d forgive me and I’d be so grateful for those crumbs of kindness that I’d try even harder to avoid upsetting him again. My children rarely heard from me.
When they’d call, I’d make excuses about why I couldn’t talk. They stopped inviting me to things.
What was the point? I always said no anyway.
I stopped leaving the house except for groceries and church. Robert didn’t ask me to stay home; he didn’t have to.
I’d learned that the cost of going out was too high. Better to stay in my cage with the door open than fly away and face his displeasure when I returned.
I lost weight, not deliberately, but stress killed my appetite. Robert’s comments about my cooking meant I barely ate at meals anyway.
My clothes hung loose. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.
Jennifer’s word came back to me: smaller. Then came the night everything changed.
It was late September. I’d made chicken for dinner using a recipe from one of Susan’s cookbooks.
Robert took one bite and pushed his plate away.
“It’s raw in the middle.”
I looked at the chicken. It wasn’t raw, maybe slightly pink near the bone, but it had been cooked properly.
“I used a thermometer. It reached 165°.”
“Are you arguing with me?”
his voice was quiet and dangerous.
“No, I just…”
“You’re telling me I’m wrong? That I don’t know what raw chicken looks like?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He stood up so abruptly his chair fell backward.
“I am so sick of this. So sick of your incompetence. Do you know what it’s like coming home every day to this? To you?”
“Robert, please.”
“You want to know the truth, Margaret? The truth is, you’re a disappointment. A constant, daily disappointment. I thought you’d be different. I thought after Tom, you’d be grateful to have someone take care of you. But instead, you’re just useless.”
Each word was like a slap. I felt tears starting, which only made me angry at myself.
Don’t cry. Don’t give him that satisfaction.
“I’m doing my best,”
I managed.
“Your best?”
He laughed.
“Your best is burned dinners and a messy house and constant complaining. Your best is isolating yourself from everyone because you can’t even maintain basic relationships. Your best is being so needy and pathetic that your own children barely call anymore.”
“That’s because you…”
