Our daughter noticed everything. Mia didn’t cry or complain—she watched. Children always do. For her sake, I told myself to endure it. I believed that keeping the family together mattered more than my own happiness.
Marcus’s criticism became constant. No matter how hard I tried, he always found something wrong. If the counter wasn’t spotless, if Mia wasn’t already in bed, if I asked for help—there was always a reason to belittle me. His job instability only fueled his anger. Each time he quit or was let go, he blamed everyone else—and somehow, it always became my fault.
I felt like I was raising two children. I protected Mia as best I could, stepping in when Marcus snapped at her. When I did, his anger turned on me. Over time, I stopped arguing. I learned silence was safer. Still, I stayed—hoping, foolishly, that one day he might change.
Then came the accident.
It was an ordinary evening. I had just finished grocery shopping and was crossing the street when I never saw the car coming. Tires screeched. A horn blared. Then everything went dark.