Your chest is tight. It’s been tight for so long you’ve stopped noticing it’s tight, until someone hugs you and you realize you’re holding your breath.

He walks in the door and something in your body shifts. You don’t consciously register it, but your shoulders rise slightly. Your voice gets softer. Your movements become smaller. You are physically shrinking.

Last week, you made a suggestion about finances. You had thought about it carefully. You believed it was good for the family. His response was so swift, so certain that you were stupid, that you felt the conviction drain out of you like water from a sieve. Now when you think about that conversation, you can’t remember why you ever thought it was a good idea. His certainty has become the truth, and your certainty has evaporated.

You’ve started apologizing for things you didn’t do, just to end arguments faster. You’ve started taking blame that doesn’t belong to you, because peace—even false peace—feels better than his contempt. You’ve become so skilled at self-betrayal that you sometimes forget what you actually believe about anything.

The kids ask you a question and you hesitate before answering, wondering how your answer might be used against you later, or whether it might upset him, or whether it might be “wrong.” You’re not just managing him anymore. You’re managing him through your children.

You love him. Or you used to. Or you’re supposed to. You can’t remember anymore. What you know is: if you leave, you’ll lose the children, your home, your reputation, your God. If you stay, you’ll lose yourself. Those are your only two options, and both involve a profound, irreversible loss.

So you choose the one where you’re still physically present.