I have PCOS, and my periods are brutal. My husband always brushed off my pain as “dramatic,” echoing his mother’s belief that women “milk it” for attention. Then one day, I found a small recording device hidden in a plant in our bedroom. He admitted his mother had planted it to “catch me faking.” My laugh came out dry, shaky—because it wasn’t a joke. My own husband had needed proof of my suffering.
That night, I packed a bag and went to my sister Alina’s. She didn’t ask questions, just hugged me while I cried. When I told her what happened, she was furious. “That’s not love—that’s control,” she said. Deep down, I knew she was right. I thought back to all the times his mother called me lazy for missing family events, and how he stayed silent. Slowly, he’d started believing her.
A week later, he texted an apology, sending me a photo of the smashed device. “Proof I’m done letting her interfere,” he wrote. Alina shook her head: “He didn’t break your trust with a hammer—so he can’t fix it with one.” I stayed away, focusing on healing. I found a supportive doctor, joined a group for women with PCOS, and realized I wasn’t alone. Their stories mirrored mine—dismissed pain, ignored voices.
Two months later, he showed up, thinner, holding a notebook. He confessed he’d listened to the recordings—my sobs, my whispered prayers—and felt ashamed. In the notebook, he had written daily apologies, memories of ways he failed me, and one final line: “I don’t expect forgiveness. I just hope I never hurt anyone else like this again.”
I cried, but I didn’t return. Instead, I filed for separation. I chose myself. Today, I live in a small apartment filled with plants, laughter, and even a cat named Rumi. I started sharing my story online, and women across the world reached out. That’s when I realized: you don’t need proof to deserve care. Love listens. Love believes. And real strength begins when you finally believe yourself.