"You're so lucky," people would say, envy dripping from their voices. "You married such a good man."
But they didn't know.
Our marriage was a stagnant pool, rotting from the inside.
In the beginning, there was passion. We were inseparable. But slowly, the romance evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of mundane chores. Poetry and dreams were buried under piles of laundry and grocery lists.
My pregnancy was brutal. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep.
At first, he would hold me, his voice soft. "You're working so hard, honey."
But as the weeks turned into months, his patience frayed. My suffering became an inconvenience.
"All women go through this," he said one evening, not looking up from his phone. "Just endure it."
I asked for a glass of water.
He didn't even lift his eyes.
"Can't you see I'm busy? Why are you so delicate? Other women get pregnant without making such a fuss."
A chill settled into my bones.
*Men mature late,* I told myself. *Once the baby is here, he'll change.*
Then came the delivery.
My in-laws—who had ignored my entire pregnancy—finally showed up at the hospital. They didn't ask how I was. They didn't even look at me. They swarmed the baby, beaming with joy, while I lay in the bed.
Exhausted.
Invisible.
My milk ducts clogged.
Searing pain shot through my chest until I burned with fever. My husband didn't offer a single word of comfort. Instead, as our son wailed from hunger, he glared at me.
"Can't you do anything right? You're useless."
The chill struck again, freezing a little more of my heart.
At night, the baby cried constantly. My husband moved to the guest room, claiming he needed his sleep for work. From that moment on, the feeding, the diapers, the endless rocking—all of it fell on me.
With no one to help, I had to grit my teeth and resign from the job I loved. I became a housewife. A woman who had to hold out her hand for money.
My world shrank. No friends. No social life. Just endless cleaning, scrubbing bottles, and the piercing wail of an infant. I was a machine, running twenty-four hours a day.
My husband would come home, announce that he was tired, and collapse onto the sofa to scroll through videos or play games.
If I asked him to watch the baby for ten minutes, he would pretend not to hear. If he did agree, he wouldn't move—his eyes stayed glued to the screen.