It was nearly 2 a.m. when I grabbed my baby and left everything behind—still wearing my robe and slippers. I didn’t even take my phone charger. My heart was racing, tears were clouding my eyes, and my baby was crying softly in my arms. But I kept going. I had to. I couldn’t take it anymore.
We reached my parents’ house after a long walk through the cold, quiet streets. My hands trembled as I pounded on their door. Thankfully, they were awake. The look on my mother’s face when she saw me standing there, barefoot and exhausted, told me everything: I was safe now.
Why did I leave in such a panic?
It wasn’t the typical story people expect. My husband Warren didn’t drink. He didn’t raise his voice. But his addiction was different—it was his need for control. And his mother, who lived with us, only made it worse.
Warren expected every detail of our home to revolve around him. He timed my errands. He counted how many minutes I spent feeding our son. If I sat down for five minutes, he’d ask why I wasn’t folding laundry. His mother defended him constantly. “That’s just how men are,” she’d say. “You’re lucky he doesn’t hit you.” That sentence still rings in my ears.
Continue reading on next page…