My Husband Laughed at the Anniversary Dinner I Spe…

I pulled my phone from my dress pocket and opened a folder innocuously titled “Household Records.”

Behind that plain little label was a careful archive. Fourteen months of photographs. Screenshots of text messages.

Dated journal entries. Notes from therapy. Not because I’d been consciously planning to leave.

I hadn’t allowed that thought to fully form until tonight. But my therapist, Kendra, had suggested keeping a journal of “moments that made you feel small” as part of recognizing patterns. “If you’re not sure whether it’s a pattern,” she’d said a year ago, crossing one leg over the other in her office with the soft blue rug, “document.

Feelings are real, but evidence will help you trust your perception when he tells you you’re overreacting.”

I’d almost argued with her. He doesn’t tell me I’m overreacting that often, I’d wanted to say. But when I’d gone home that day and flipped through my existing diary, I’d realized that actually, he did.