My wife is one person in public, yet she’s entirely different at home.
I feel compelled to share my pain—pain that has lingered for years.
My wife has two faces. In social situations, she is charming, courteous, and radiant. But once the doors to our home close, she transforms into someone completely different.
Among others, she smiles, speaks softly, and is generous with compliments. Kind, polite, and responsive—everyone admires her.
Friends envy me, saying, “What a wonderful wife you have, a dream come true!”
But I want to scream.
Because no one sees how she behaves when we’re at home.
Behind closed doors, it’s a different reality. Everything changes.
She speaks to me harshly, as if I were not her husband but a mere servant.
She chastises me over trivial matters: if a plate is out of place, if I return from work later than expected, or if I happen to forget something from the shop.
The kindest thing she calls me is “fool” or “simpleton.”
I don’t even dare dream of compliments or warm words.
I remember her differently. Sometimes I wonder why I tolerate it.
Then I recall how she was when we first started seeing each other.
Back then, she was the most tender, caring, and feminine woman.
She looked at me with loving eyes, her voice was sweet, and she knew how to uplift my spirits and instill confidence.
I thought I had found my happiness.
Yet, it seemed I was still a “strange” man to her then.
Now that she’s sure I won’t go anywhere, the masks have come off.
An Attempt to Leave
One day, I decided to teach her a lesson.
I packed my things, took the children, and went to my sister’s.
When she came home to find us gone, fear washed over her. She immediately began calling me, trying to find out where we were and what had happened.
The children told me she wandered around the house, restless. Her hands trembled, and she looked bewildered.
She called all our friends, her voice filled with apprehension.
When I finally answered the phone, she was in tears.
“Come back,” she simply said.
I returned.
That night, she didn’t let go of my hand for even a second.
The next morning, she promised everything would change. That she would be kinder, that I would once again hear warm words from her.
I believed her.
But as soon as life settled into its routine, everything repeated itself.
To Endure or to Leave?
It pains me to admit, but I don’t know what to do next.
Leave?
Yes, but at least right now there’s food in the house, the fridge is stocked, bills are paid. The children are fed and dressed.
Stay?
But then I would be forced to live in a world devoid of warmth, affection, or even basic respect.
Perhaps I am destined to live without love.
Yet, maybe this is the lesser of two evils.
