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From the beginning of our marriage, small signs told me something was off, though I couldn’t have predicted how things would unfold.
My husband, Andrew, had always been unusually attached to his mother, Margaret. She called him constantly, commented on every decision we made, and behaved as if I were a temporary guest in her son’s life rather than his wife.
So when Andrew suggested we move into her house “to save money and be closer to family,” I knew it meant more than just a change of address—it meant surrendering my independence. I refused. Calmly, firmly, without raising my voice.
That evening, as I prepared dinner in silence, Andrew came into the kitchen with a tense, unreadable expression. He kept repeating that I was ungrateful, that his mother was right about me, that I didn’t “understand my place.”
Before I could finish saying his name, he lost his temper and slapped me.
Just one slap. Quick. Sudden. But the shock of it left me frozen.
Immediately afterward, he smoothed his hair, took a breath, and said with unsettling calm:
“Don’t ever challenge me like that again.”
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