I used to believe I had married the kind of man every woman prayed for. He remembered little things about me, held my hand in public, and never forgot our anniversary. When I cried, he held me until I fell asleep. So when our marriage began to change, I blamed myself. My husband, Adrian, slowly stopped touching me. His kisses became brief, and whenever I tried to get close to him, he claimed he was tired. Some nights, he slept facing the wall. Other nights, he stayed out late with his best friend, Marcus. Whenever I asked questions, Adrian became defensive. “Why are you always looking for problems?” he snapped one evening. “Can't you trust your own husband?” I wanted to believe him, so I apologized. Then I noticed the messages. Whenever Marcus called, Adrian stepped outside to answer. He smiled at his phone in ways I hadn't seen in months, and once, when I entered our bedroom unexpectedly, he locked his screen so quickly that my heart began to race. One Saturday, Adrian told me he was visiting his mother. He left his old phone charging on the bedside table. It buzzed. A message appeared from Marcus. “I can't keep pretending she's the only person you love. When are you going to tell her about us?”

I locked my husband outside all night because he refused to wash my underwear and told me he wasn't going to kiss my ass just because I was his wife. I thought he would apologize before morning. Instead, at 6 a.m., I found his wedding ring on the dining table and a note beside it. “I married you because I loved you, not because I agreed to become your servant.” I laughed when I read it. I was convinced he was trying to scare me. But when I called his phone, a woman answered. “Hello? His wife is calling again.” My heart dropped. Then she added, “He's in the shower. He asked me to tell you his lawyer will contact you today.”