At just 26, I experienced the heartbreak of a miscarriage. In my mind, I wondered if it was some sort of divine message. I mourned that lost child, believing that he or she would have made everything better. But when my grief lingered too long, my partner shamed me for not moving on quickly enough.
There was a moment that left a physical mark on me. Eight months into my pregnancy with our daughter, after a seemingly normal dinner at my parents’ place, he began to rage while driving home. As we merged onto the highway, I cried and begged him to calm down. Instead, he grabbed my sleeve, twisting it and shouting for me to shut up. I heard the fabric tear, and in a fit of rage, he reached over my pregnant belly to open my door, threatening to push me out if I didn’t stop crying. So, I went silent.
Once we got home, I took off that torn maternity shirt, tears streaming down my face as I examined the damage. I crumpled the evidence of his abuse and buried it deep in the trash can.
A month later, we welcomed our daughter, and four years after that, our son arrived. It was a life that appeared affluent on the outside, but he was clearly feeling rich in more ways than one. Just months after our son was born, I discovered he was buying gifts for other women. Fueled by a mix of betrayal and determination, I became a detective. I chased down every lead, collecting evidence to expose his lies.
Manipulators are crafty, but I had credit card statements, spa receptionists, and florists who willingly helped me remember the last message I sent. My victory came when a spa receptionist mistakenly thought I was one of his mistresses, recalling how sweet he was when booking an appointment for me. For the first time in years, I felt empowered.
I remember the moment I texted my best friend, who stood by me during my wedding: “I saw a lawyer and filed for divorce. I can’t talk now, but we will talk soon. Love you.” She later told me it was the best text she’d ever received. I’ll never forget my parents’ expressions when I shared the news. They looked relieved, perhaps even happy.
After he left, my first purchase was a new mascara from CVS; I had been using the same one for three years. Slowly, the feeling of walking on eggshells began to fade. I sometimes reflect on my past and think of us as the definition of emotional abuser and victim—a real-life drama unfolding before my eyes.
I often question why I waited until the gift-giving started to take action when there were countless other moments that warranted my departure. I worry for my children, wanting them to understand that leaving is always an option—even if it’s the day before or after a wedding. Returning unwanted gifts is far easier than enduring years with an emotional abuser. My children will never know the true “unlove” story of their father and me, as I must shield them from his past.
But I have a plan. I will share a story about a man named “James” from before their dad, recounting the good and the bad. I will shed real tears as I describe the early days with James, filled with breakfast-in-bed and thoughtful gifts.
I won’t hold back the details; my children need to understand what I endured and how I found my way out. They must learn that they don’t need to wait for physical abuse or infidelity to justify leaving. Emotional turmoil—shouted insults, gut-punching lies, and manipulative control—are valid reasons to walk away. They need to know that “only one time” is far too many.
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In conclusion, emotional abuse is often masked behind a facade of love. It’s crucial to recognize the signs early on and know that leaving is an option. Share your story, support one another, and know that there is always a way out.
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