I thought marriage meant partnership. I believed it was where two people showed up, equally, choosing each other through the hard things. I didn’t know mine would feel more like a stage play I never auditioned for.

For twelve years, I stayed in character. I smiled, adjusted my tone, made the audience comfortable. All while he stood behind the curtain, pulling strings, setting the scene, making sure the spotlight never landed on him.

He played the victim so well they gave him standing ovations. And I? I was the woman they pitied or judged, depending on which version of the story he told them.

It took years to understand I wasn’t unstable. I was unraveling under the weight of pretending it was love.

Leaving didn’t mean I stopped loving him. It meant I finally started loving myself.

I didn’t leave a marriage. I walked off a stage I was never allowed to stop performing on.