My new husband compared me to his dead wife every day. When I collapsed making dinner, he told th…

I stopped myself, but too late.

“Because I what?”

He stepped closer.

“Say it. Because I what?”

I took a step back. I’d never been physically afraid of him before, but something in his eyes made my survival instincts kick in.

“Because I finally showed you what kind of person you really are,”

he finished for me.

“Weak, difficult, not half the woman Susan was.”

“I’m not Susan,”

I said quietly.

“I never will be.”

“You’re damn right about that.”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. I thought he was leaving, going to cool off somewhere, and relief flooded through me.

Instead, he stopped at the kitchen counter.

“You know what Susan would do right now?”

He picked up the ceramic bowl I’d used to mix the chicken marinade.

“She’d take responsibility. She’d apologize. She’d do better. I’m sorry.”

“Too late.”

He threw the bowl, not at me, but at the wall next to my head. It exploded in a shower of ceramic shards.

I screamed and dropped to the floor, hands over my head. When I looked up, Robert was standing over me.

His face was flushed, but his voice was eerily calm.

“See what you made me do? This is what happens when you push someone too far, Margaret.”

Then he stepped over me and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the front door slam.

I sat on the floor surrounded by broken ceramic, chicken marinade dripping down the wall, shaking so hard I couldn’t stand. He hadn’t hit me; he hadn’t touched me at all.

But I was more terrified than I’d ever been in my life. I knew in that moment that this wasn’t going to get better.

The man I’d married was never coming back. I had to get out.

But how? Where would I go?

What would I tell people? That my husband threw a bowl at the wall?

That he called me useless? Would anyone even believe me?

We looked like such a normal couple. Robert was respected in the community and I’d cut myself off from everyone who might help me.

I don’t know how long I sat there. It was long enough for my legs to go numb, long enough for the adrenaline to fade into this hollow, empty feeling.

Finally, I got up. I cleaned up the broken bowl and wiped the marinade off the wall.

I threw away the chicken. I did all of this mechanically, my mind somewhere far away.

Robert came home after midnight. I was in bed, pretending to sleep.

He didn’t come to the bedroom. I heard him downstairs for a while, then silence.

In the morning, there was a note on the kitchen counter.

“Sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Let’s forget it happened.”

Let’s forget it happened. As if three years of psychological abuse could be forgotten.

As if the pattern would suddenly break because he’d written an apology on a sticky note. I made his breakfast.

I didn’t know what else to do. When he came downstairs, he kissed the top of my head like nothing had changed.

“Good morning, darling. Is that coffee I smell?”

We went through the motions of our normal morning routine. He read the paper and I cleaned up the kitchen.

He commented on the weather and I agreed it was nice. We were performing normalcy, and I was so, so tired of pretending.

That night I lay in bed after Robert fell asleep. I thought about calling Jennifer, but what would I say?

“Your new stepfather is mean to me.”

It sounded childish even in my own head. He’d never hit me.

He just controlled everything, criticized everything, and withdrew his affection to punish me. Was that even abuse?

Or was I just being too sensitive, like he said? Three more weeks passed.

Robert was on his best behavior, bringing me flowers and suggesting we watch my favorite movies. I went through the motions, but something fundamental had shifted inside me.

That bowl smashing against the wall had broken something else, too: my belief that this could work. I started having panic attacks.

My heart would race for no reason. I’d wake up gasping in the middle of the night.

I felt dizzy constantly, like the world was tilting. One morning I was making breakfast when the room started spinning.

I grabbed the counter but my legs gave out. The last thing I remember was the cold tile floor rushing up to meet me.

When I came to, Robert was leaning over me, his face pale.

“Margaret, Margaret, can you hear me?”

I tried to speak, but my tongue felt thick and everything hurt.

“Don’t move. I’m calling 911.”

He had his phone out already, dialing. For a moment I saw genuine fear in his eyes.

For a moment he was the Robert I’d thought I married. The ambulance arrived within minutes, paramedics asking questions.

Robert explained I’d just collapsed, that I’d been stressed lately, that he was worried about me. He played the concerned husband perfectly.

At the emergency room they ran tests. My blood pressure was through the roof, my heart was racing, and I was dehydrated and malnourished.

The doctor looked at my chart with concern.

“Mrs. Patterson, when’s the last time you had a physical?”

I couldn’t remember. Maybe two years ago.

She examined me more carefully. I was wearing a short-sleeved gown and I saw her pause at the bruise on my upper arm.

I’d forgotten about that. Robert had grabbed me too hard a few days ago when I’d tried to walk away from an argument.

“How did I get this bruise?”

her voice was carefully neutral.

“I don’t remember. Maybe I bumped into something.”

She made a note. Then she did something that changed everything.

She looked at Robert, who’d been hovering by the door, and said:

“Sir, I need to examine your wife privately now. If you could wait in the hall.”

Robert’s jaw tightened, but he couldn’t refuse without looking suspicious.

“Of course. I’ll just be outside.”

The moment the door closed, the doctor moved her chair closer to my bed.

“Margaret,”

she said quietly,

“I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me. Are you safe at home?”

The question hit me like a physical blow.

“Are you safe at home?”

No one had asked me that, not in three years, not once. I opened my mouth to lie, to say of course I was safe, to protect Robert’s reputation and my own embarrassment.

But what came out instead was a sob. And then I couldn’t stop crying.

The doctor handed me tissues and waited. She didn’t rush me, didn’t tell me to calm down, just sat there while three years of pain poured out of me.

“He doesn’t hit me,”

I finally managed.