I thought I was marrying the most thoughtful man I’d ever met. Turns out, I was walking into a house where “help” meant servitude, “love” meant control, and a locked door became the line between sanity and betrayal. I met Collins when I was 28, knee-deep in stress and marinara sauce, juggling plates and fake smiles during the night shift at a cramped Italian restaurant in the city.
He wasn’t flashy — no expensive watches or slick lines. Just a man with soft eyes, a warm laugh, and a habit of sitting in the same corner booth every Thursday, tipping like he was trying to save the world one server at a time. “You ever sleep?” he asked me once, smiling as I refilled his iced tea.
“Sleep is a myth,” I joked. “I survive off espresso and spite.”
He laughed like I’d said something profound. And he remembered weeks later when I mentioned my cat, Pickles, was sick.
“How’s Pickles doing?” he’d asked casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world to remember a waitress’s cat. Then came the night the sky cracked open with thunder and sheets of rain. My shift ended, my bus was running late, and there he was, waiting in his old Toyota, window rolled down.
“Need a ride?” he asked, his voice gentle, unassuming. I said yes. He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t even glance sideways. Just drove in silence with soft rock playing and told me, “Your laugh… It’s the highlight of my week.”
I should’ve known then. I should’ve known it was all part of something bigger.
We started dating three weeks after that rainy night. It felt natural and easy. Collins wasn’t rich or flashy.
He worked tech support from his bedroom and lived with his mom, Jenna, “just until the debts are gone,” he’d said. But he listened. He cared.
He made me feel like I mattered. So when he proposed exactly one year later, with a modest ring and nervous smile, I didn’t hesitate. I was sure.
Completely sure. Until the cracks started to show. They came in whispers, not shouts.
Like when I picked up extra shifts, and he’d sigh just loud enough to make me feel guilty. “I just… miss you,” he’d say, pulling me into a hug that felt more like a grip. “You’re never home anymore.”
At first, I believed him.
Thought it was sweet. But then “home” became a trap, a place I was expected to always be. When we moved into his mom’s house, because he wanted to save, the air changed.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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