Every morning in our home started with a complaint, and every evening ended with a jab. He had a way of making me feel like a failure, even when I was trying my hardest to keep everything together.

His go-to insult came whenever the laundry wasn’t folded or dinner wasn’t hot enough.

“Other women juggle jobs and kids. You? You can’t even keep my special shirt clean,” he’d gripe, and I’d scramble to meet his expectations.

That shirt. I’ll never forget that awful white dress shirt with the navy trim. He called it his “special shirt,” like it was some prized heirloom. I’d washed it dozens of times, but if it wasn’t hanging exactly where he expected, I was suddenly useless.

It was a Tuesday morning when everything unraveled.

I’d been feeling off for days but didn’t think much of it. Most days, I felt dizzy, nauseous, completely drained. I figured it was a bad flu, maybe a virus. But I pushed through, packing lunches, sweeping crumbs, making sure the boys didn’t fight over their action figures.

I even made strawberry pancakes that morning, hoping Thane might crack a smile for once.