But after that, I started to fear him. Not his blows—there weren’t any. I feared his mood. I walked more quietly, spoke less, tried to be comfortable. The more I tried, the angrier he got. The quieter I became, the louder he screamed.
The last straw was a broken outlet.
I simply told him we needed to call an electrician. He blamed me, started fixing it himself, got angry, threw a screwdriver, yelled at me, at the outlet, at the whole world.
And at that moment, I realized: it would only get worse. He wouldn’t change. And I was almost gone.
I left quietly. While he was gone, I gathered my documents, clothes, the bare essentials. I left everything else. I put my keys on the table, wrote a short note, and closed the door.
I called my daughter. She only said one thing: “Mom, come over.” No questions asked.
