I met my husband on a night I barely had the energy to stand. I’d been up till 3 a.m. submitting manuscripts and had dragged myself to a university alumni mixer purely out of obligation. I was bleary-eyed, gripping my third cup of coffee when I reached for a cookie and accidentally flung my drink all over a stranger’s blazer.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” I blurted, fumbling for napkins.

He just laughed — warm, easy, genuine. “Hey, it’s fine. Really.”

That moment turned into two hours of effortless conversation. He was an associate attorney; I was a worn-out editorial assistant. It felt easy. Safe. And soon, it felt like love.

He showed up with tea and cookies on hard days. Left me sweet notes in my kitchen. He held space for my grief when I talked about losing my dad. When he proposed, I said yes without hesitation.

Our wedding was held in my mom’s backyard — fairy lights, handwritten vows, and promises beneath an old oak tree. I believed in us.

But the morning after “forever,” I woke up alone. His car was gone. No note, no kiss. That became a pattern. His absence. His indifference. When I asked, he said, “We’re married now. We don’t need to do all that romantic stuff anymore.”

I tried. I truly did. I convinced myself marriage was an adjustment. But quickly, I became a maid in my own home. He expected a pristine apartment, hot meals, coffee ready. And when I reminded him I worked 50-hour weeks too, he scoffed.

“You just read books all day,” he said.Read More Below