When Happiness Fades: She Humiliated Me, but I Endured for the Children
I stayed silent for too long. For years, I couldn’t bring myself to speak of this. It seemed others had far worse problems than mine. But now, after 30 years of marriage, I feel nothing but emptiness inside. I want to scream, to shout, “This isn’t how life should be!” But who would listen?
I’m 58, living in a house that stopped being a home long ago. Together, yet apart. Under one roof, but strangers. And perhaps there’s no changing it now.
I married without love—and paid the price.
At 28, my parents insisted I marry Eleanor. I didn’t love her. Back then, I thought love didn’t matter much. Family, stability, respect—that’s what counted. So we married.
Eleanor quickly showed her true colours. She humiliated me in front of friends, mocked me, called me useless. In public, she’d hold my hand tenderly, but behind closed doors, she’d sneer, “You’re nothing.” Everything about me irritated her—how I ate, how I spoke, even how I breathed. But I endured. For the children. To keep the family whole. I told myself things would change.
They only got worse.
We lived like neighbours. But neighbours don’t tear each other down.
When our sons grew up and moved away, Eleanor stopped hiding her contempt. I built an extension and moved into it. No more shared meals, no warmth. We split everything—the fridge, the dishes, the space. She labelled her food in containers so I wouldn’t dare touch it. I ate alone, slept alone, lived alone. And when acquaintances said, “What a strong couple you are!” I nearly laughed in their faces.
Every day was a battle just to exist.
When Eleanor wasn’t working, the house became a warzone. She’d scream, curse, blame me for everything.
“Pathetic!”
“Useless!”
“You’ve achieved nothing!”
I stayed quiet, hoping it would pass. But it never did. She always found new ways to cut me down. Once, I overheard her tell a friend, “He’s not even a proper man. Just a sorry excuse clinging to this house.” That’s when something inside me shattered. I lived with someone who saw me as nothing. And the cruelest part? I had nowhere to go.
I’d spent years working, building this home, raising our sons—only to endure this, just to keep a roof over my head.
I don’t know why I’m still here.
I could leave. But where would I go? The boys have their own families now. They visit rarely, and when they do, they pretend not to notice. It’s easier for them to believe we’re fine. And I’ve stopped caring.
I’m just waiting. Waiting for this nightmare to end. Waiting until I no longer have the energy to argue, to fight back. Waiting—just once—to feel like someone beside me doesn’t look at me with hatred.
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to tell those who are young now: Don’t marry without love. Don’t stay in a house where you’re belittled. Don’t endure misery for the children—they’ll leave one day anyway.
I pray my sons find more happiness than I did. And if my story teaches someone what I failed to learn, then perhaps none of it was in vain.