This year, I’m 36 and married to Thane, who’s 38. From the outside, we looked like the ideal family, but the truth was far different. When Thane mistreated me while I was ill, it was the final straw that shattered my patience.
To those who knew us, we were the image of the “American dream.” In some ways, we were. I lived in a cozy four-bedroom apartment with two young boys, a neat lawn, and a husband with a high-flying job as a lead developer for a gaming studio.
Thane earned more than enough to support our lifestyle, so I stayed home with the kids. Sadly, people thought I had it easy. But behind closed doors, I felt like I was suffocating.
Now, don’t get me wrong—Thane was never physically harsh, but his words were cutting, intentional, and constant, making him cruel. I know that’s no excuse or proof he was better because the pain he caused didn’t show, but I’d told myself it was bearable.
