Then he’d add, casually:
“Besides, Mom would be lonely.”
Lonely.
But Olivia never behaved like someone who lacked company.
She behaved like someone who enjoyed control.
She liked issuing orders. She liked watching me rush home from work—still dressed for the office—preparing meals while she sat on the couch with the television blaring.
She liked how I swallowed my frustration because I didn’t want to become “that wife.”
Gradually, my body began protesting.
First came sleepless nights.
Then headaches.
Then stomach pain so intense it felt like my insides were trying to escape.
One evening, I broke down while folding towels and couldn’t stop crying.
It terrified me.
I went to a doctor. Then a therapist.
The diagnosis was detached and clinical:
Adjustment disorder.
What it really meant was simple.
My life itself had become a stress response.
