My wife is one person in public and quite another at home.
I feel compelled to share my pain. A pain that has lingered for years.
My wife has two faces. In social settings, she is charming, considerate, and radiant. But as soon as we step through our front door, she transforms into an entirely different person.
When we’re out, she smiles, speaks in a gentle tone, and is generous with compliments. Polite, kind, and attentive—everyone admires her.
Our friends envy me, often saying, “What a dream wife you have!”
But I want to scream.
Because no one sees how she behaves in the privacy of our home.
Behind closed doors, it’s a different reality.
Things are quite different at home.
She talks to me harshly, as if I’m not her husband but some sort of servant.
She criticises me for the smallest things: if a plate is out of place, if I come home late from work, or if I forget to pick something up from the shop.
Her kindest term of endearment for me is “fool” or “simpleton.”
I don’t even dare to dream of receiving compliments or warm words.
I remember her differently.
Sometimes I ask myself, why do I endure this?
But then I recall who she was when we first started dating.
At that time, she was the most tender, nurturing, and feminine woman.
She looked at me with loving eyes, her voice soothing, and she had a knack for boosting my spirits, instilling confidence.
I thought I had found my happiness.
But evidently, I was still just the “other” man to her back then.
Now, believing I’m not going anywhere, her true self has emerged.
An attempt to leave.
One day, I decided to teach her a lesson.
I packed my things, took the kids, and went to my sister’s house.
When she returned home and found us gone, fear washed over her. She immediately started calling me, desperate to know where we were and what had happened.
The children later told me she was pacing around the house, unable to settle down. Her hands trembled, and she appeared utterly bewildered.
She called all our friends, her voice filled with panic.
When I finally answered the phone, she was in tears.
“Come back,” was all she said.
I returned.
That night, she held my hand tightly, not letting go for even a moment.
In the morning, she promised that everything would change. She would be kinder, and I would hear those warm words from her again.
I believed her.
But as life returned to its usual routine, everything reverted back.
To stay or to leave?
It’s shameful to admit, but I don’t know what to do next.
Leave?
Yes, but our home is filled with food, the fridge is stocked, bills are paid, and the children are well-fed and clothed.
Stay?
But then I would have to live in a world devoid of warmth, tenderness, and even basic respect.
Perhaps I’m destined to live without love.
But maybe that’s the least of the evils?
