Then I started catching myself making excuses before I even said anything.

He started criticizing the food. It was either too salty, or not salty enough, or “it used to be better.” One day, I put on some old songs I loved. He came into the kitchen and said, “Turn it off. Normal people don’t listen to this kind of stuff.” I turned it off. And for some reason, I felt so empty.

The first real nervous breakdown came suddenly. He was irritated; I asked him a simple question and he screamed. Then he threw the remote against the wall. It shattered. I just stood there, watching, as if nothing was happening to me. Later, he apologized, saying he was tired and working. I believed him. I really wanted to believe him.

But after that episode, I started to fear him. Not his punches, of which there were none. I was afraid of his mood. I walked more quietly, spoke less, tried to stay comfortable. The more I tried, the angrier he got. The quieter I became, the louder he shouted.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was a broken electrical outlet.

I simply told him we needed to call an electrician. He blamed me, started fixing it himself, got angry, threw a screwdriver, yelled at me, at the outlet, at the entire world.

And in that moment I realized: things were only going to get worse. He wasn’t going to change. And I was almost ready to leave.

I left in silence. While he was gone, I gathered my documents, my clothes, the bare essentials. I left everything else. I put my keys on the table, wrote a short note, and closed the door.

I called my daughter. She said only one thing: “Mom, come.” No questions asked.

He called me, he texted me, he promised to change. I never responded.

Now I live in peace again. I’m with my daughter. I work, I meet with friends, I breathe deeply. And now I know for sure: I wasn’t bothering anyone. I simply chose the wrong person and put up with the situation for too long, so as not to be “useless.”