My husband has always told me I’m not feminine enough. At first, he’d hint casually—saying if I wore more makeup, put on dresses, or acted “softer,” things would be better. But I’ve never been that kind of woman. I’ve always been practical, straightforward, not fussy. I work hard, solve problems, get things done. That’s always been me, and he knew it—I never pretended to be anyone else. Over time, his comments became more frequent. He started comparing me to women we saw on social media, to our friends’ wives, to colleagues. He’d say I looked more like a mate than a wife. I’d listen, sometimes we’d argue, but then we carried on. I never thought it was a big deal—just a difference in our relationship. But the day I buried my father, nothing seemed trivial anymore. I was numb. I couldn’t sleep or eat—my only thought was somehow getting through the funeral. I put on the first black clothes I found, skipped my makeup, barely touched my hair; I had no energy for anything else. Before we left, my husband looked at me and said, “Are you really going like that? Won’t you at least make a bit of an effort?” At first, I didn’t understand. I told him I didn’t care how I looked—I’d just lost my dad. He replied, “Still… people will talk. You look completely run-down.” I felt something strange, as if I’d been crushed from the inside. At the service, he mingled with the guests, offered condolences, looked serious. But he was distant with me—hardly touched me, didn’t ask how I was. When we passed a mirror, he quietly said I should “pull myself together a bit more,” that my dad wouldn’t want to see me in such a state. Back home after the funeral, I asked if my appearance really was all he’d noticed that day. If he saw how devastated I really was. He told me not to overreact; he was just sharing his opinion, that a woman shouldn’t let herself go “even at times like these.” Since then, I see him differently. But I can’t leave him. I feel like I can’t live without him. ❓ What would you say to this woman if she were sitting in front of you?

My husband always used to say that I wasnt quite ladylike enough. At first, it was just the odd remarkhow perhaps I should wear a touch more make-up, dress in skirts more often, or try to be gentler in my ways. But that simply wasnt me. Id always been practical, straightforward, never one for fuss or frills. I worked hard, sorted out problems, and did what needed doing. Thats how hed met me; Id never pretended to be someone else.

As time went on, his comments became more frequent. Hed started comparing me to women we saw in the papers or on the street, to the wives of his friends, or to women at his office. Hed say I looked more like a mate than a wife. Id listen, sometimes wed quarrel, but then wed get on as usual. I never really believed it was seriousjust chalked it up to the usual differences that come up in any marriage.

The day I buried my father, all of that stopped seeming unimportant. I was numb with shock. I couldnt sleep, I couldnt eat, and the only thing on my mind was how Id get through the funeral. I just pulled on the first black clothes I found, didnt touch a bit of make-up, barely ran a brush through my hair. I hadnt the strength for any of it.

Just before we left the house, my husband looked at me and said,
Are you really going like that? Couldnt you freshen up, even a little?

At first, I couldnt even take it in. I told him I didnt care how I looked; Id only just lost my father. He replied,
Yes, but still people will talk. You look terribly unkempt.

It was as if something inside me brokea heavy, crushing feeling Id never known.

At the memorial, he mingled, shaking hands, offering condolences, keeping the right solemn air. But with me, he kept his distance. There was hardly a comforting touch, not once did he ask after me. Later, as we passed a hallway mirror, he murmured that I ought to try and pull myself together, saying my father wouldnt want to see me letting myself go.

Back at home, after everything was done, I asked him if truly, that was all hed seen that daynot that I was shattered, but only how I looked. He told me not to make a fuss, that he was simply being honest, because a woman shouldnt let herself go even at times like this.

Since then, Ive seen him with different eyes.

But I cannot seem to leave him.

It feels as though I simply cannot be without him.

If you were sitting with me now, what would you say?