The first year after Dad died, Mom barely spoke. The second year, she barely smiled. By the third, I’d have given anything to see her happy again. When Robert appeared – all polished manners and perfect timing – I thought he was our miracle.
At first, he was. He remembered her favorite flowers. He laughed at her jokes. He treated me like family. Their wedding was small but joyful – the first real light I’d seen in her eyes since Dad’s passing.
Then the cracks appeared. Her vibrant wardrobe became muted. Her social calendar emptied. Her opinions faded into “whatever you think, dear.” I told myself it was just newlywed adjustment – until the day I found him throwing her clothes away while she sat frozen, a single tear tracking down her cheek.
That tear started a revolution. I didn’t fight Robert head-on. I fought smarter – with a planned escape, a safe place, and the patience to wait for her to be ready. When she finally whispered “I don’t want to go back,” we moved fast. New apartment. New locks. New life.
Now when I visit, the difference is staggering. Music plays constantly. The fridge is covered in takeout menus and book club schedules. Her closet looks like a rainbow exploded inside it. As for Robert? Let’s just say I made sure he understood – when you try to dim a woman’s light, you’d better be ready for the fire that follows.
