The breaking point came after days of exhaustion. I was dizzy, nauseous, and bone-tired, but still carried on: packed lunches, swept crumbs, made banana pancakes—trying to buy a rare moment of calm. Tyler entered, grabbed a dry piece of toast, bypassing me and the boys. Then the shout from the bedroom:
“Madison, where’s my white shirt?”
I told him it was in the wash. Rage contorted his face. My illness, my fatigue—it didn’t matter. Only his inconvenience did. “What do you even do all day?” he snapped. “You eat my food, spend my money, and can’t even do this one thing.”
He left for work, slamming the door. I felt the room spin, nausea and pain hitting me like a freight train. By noon, I couldn’t stand. My vision blurred; I collapsed on the kitchen floor, my seven-year-old, Ethan, screaming in panic.
Continue reading…
