I don’t even know if I feel anger anymore. Not sadness either. Just… nothing. And that emptiness terrifies me more than if I were furious.
I’ve been with my wife for over a decade. Through every fight, every disagreement, every clash of me being the optimistic realist and her leaning into negativity. I’ve carried this marriage. I’ve swallowed broken boundary after broken boundary—financial, emotional, around the house, with pets.
We already live in chaos. Three cats. Two dogs. Chickens. It’s a full-time job just existing in this house. I drew the line. I made it clear: no more animals. And I thought that meant something.
But I knew. The second she drove an hour away, I knew it wasn’t some errand. My gut told me it was about an animal. And when she came back, putting the chickens away, there it was. A new dog.
She lied. Told me it was someone else’s dog, that we were just taking care of it. But I took her phone, and there it was in black and white: the texts, the exchange, the truth. This dog wasn’t temporary. She paid $600 for it. Six hundred dollars we don’t have.
This isn’t a small mistake. This is a pattern. Boundaries shattered again and again. Me saying no, her deciding my “no” doesn’t matter.
And she’s pregnant. I want this child. I’m happy about it. But I don’t want to raise a child in a home built on lies, disrespect, and chaos. I don’t want to be numb to my own marriage.
I haven’t separated myself yet, but when she finally admits it—when she stops pretending and says out loud this dog is hers—I’m moving into the finished basement.