At first, I thought the problem was me. Maybe I just wasn’t good enough. Maybe I walked funny, maybe my voice was too rough, maybe my hair didn’t sit the way she wanted. I kept trying to fix myself, to be better, for her. But after years of this, I finally understood—the problem wasn’t me. It was her.
My wife, Emily, has this relentless obsession with finding flaws in me. And she insists it’s all for my own good—because, according to her, if she doesn’t tell me the truth, someone else will, and that would hurt me even more.
At first, I took her words seriously. She told me I had bad posture, that I walked like an old man, hunched over, awkward. I signed up for swimming lessons, joined a gym, even tried yoga. All of it just to stand taller, to be more graceful.
And what did I get? Nothing. Not a single compliment. No acknowledgment that I had improved. Just a dry, indifferent, “Well, good, keep going.”
Then, a few months later, she decided my voice was the problem.
“It’s too harsh, too loud, it grates on my nerves,” she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.
Why hadn’t she mentioned it before? Why was it suddenly an issue now?
But I believed her. I signed up for voice lessons, tried to soften my tone, worked on my speech. My vocal coach looked at me like I was crazy.
“Your voice is completely fine. Who told you this nonsense?”
I didn’t even have to answer.
But by then, I was already conditioned—if Emily said something was wrong with me, then it must be wrong.
And it never stopped. There was always something new. My hair was too short, or maybe too long. My shirts weren’t stylish enough. My laugh was too loud. No matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough.
Until one day, I snapped.
“And what about you, Emily? Maybe you should look in the mirror for a change. Maybe I’m not the only one who needs fixing.”
She looked at me like I had just betrayed her.
“Wow. I never expected this from you,” she spat, her voice dripping with disappointment.
Oh, so she was allowed to criticize me, but the moment I said something back, she was the victim?
This wasn’t a marriage. This was some twisted test where I kept trying to pass, but the rules kept changing.
I was done. I filed for divorce.
She’s still in shock, trying to process what’s happening. Walking around like she can’t believe it. But she hasn’t said a word.
And for the first time in years, I can finally breathe.
Let her search for the perfect man—or, more likely, her next victim.
