A Wife's Silent Struggle

The alarm has not yet rung, but his voice is already there—sharp, insistent, cutting through the dark.

“You’re late.”

“You never do it right.”

“Why do I even keep you here?”

Each phrase is a bullet fired before dawn.

I lie still, calculating my next move.

If I rise too quickly, he will call me frantic.

If I rise too slowly, he will call me lazy.

Every gesture is a strategy, every silence a defense.

The battlefield is invisible, but I know its terrain.

The bed is no sanctuary—it is a trench.

The kitchen is a minefield, where the clatter of a pan can trigger his rage.

The hallway is a gauntlet, lined with his expectations.

I move carefully, like a soldier under surveillance.

My breath shallow, my steps measured.

I prepare the children’s breakfast, each slice of toast a shield, each glass of milk a fragile offering.

They smile, unaware of the war raging in the air.

Their laughter is a brief ceasefire, but I know it will not last.

Inside my head, the battle is louder.

I replay his words, mapping them like enemy positions.

I know where he will strike next—

the laundry, the dishes, the way I hold my body.

I brace myself, rehearsing silence, rehearsing perfection.

Morning is not a beginning.

It is another campaign.

Another day of survival fought in whispers and calculations.

And though I carry no weapons, I carry endurance.

Endurance is my armor.

Endurance is my testimony.

Endurance is the only way I fight back.

The house is not home—it is barracks.

The roof above me is not shelter—it is currency.

Every shingle, every beam, every wall is a reminder:

This is what I am paid with.

Not love. Not respect.

Survival, at a cost.

He reminds me often:

“You should be grateful.”

“You’d have nothing without me.”

The words are chains disguised as generosity.

The roof is the wage, the silence is the contract.

I endure, because to resist is to risk exile.

I walk the rooms like a soldier patrolling hostile ground.

The kitchen is a checkpoint, the living room a command post.

Every corner whispers the same truth:

I am here because I obey.

I am kept because I serve.

The roof leaks shame.

It drips into my bones,

seeps into my breath,

settles into the cracks of my voice.

I cannot call it home,

because home is a sanctuary,

and this is prison disguised as shelter.

Inside my head, the war continues.

I weigh the cost of each word,

each silence, each smile.

The roof is my ration,

the bed my meager wage.

And though I survive beneath it,

I know the price:

My voice, my freedom, my self.

The table is not a place of family—it is a battlefield.

Every plate I set down is a shield, every fork a fragile weapon.

He surveys the meal like a general inspecting troops,

and I brace myself for the barrage.

Too much salt.

Not enough meat.

Why can’t I ever get it right?

The words are bullets, fired across the table.

I calculate each response like a soldier under fire:

Nod, lower eyes, breathe shallow.

To speak would be to expose myself.

To resist would be to invite annihilation.

The children eat quickly, sensing the tension.

Their laughter is a brief ceasefire,

but even joy is dangerous—it can be twisted, claimed,

turned into proof of his dominion.

Inside my head, the war rages louder.

I replay every command, every insult,

mapping them like enemy positions.

I know where he will strike next,

and I prepare my defenses:

a smile too tight, a silence too long,

a body folded into obedience.

Dinner is not nourishment—it is an offering.

Every bite is a sacrifice, every swallow a surrender.

The table is altar, the food is tribute,

and I am a priestess of survival,

performing rituals to keep the peace.

But the battlefield is endless.

There is no victory, only endurance.

Every day another campaign,

every night another retreat into exhaustion.

And though I carry no weapons,

I carry testimony.

Testimony carved from this war

is the only way I fight back.

The house sleeps, but the war does not end.

The children’s breaths are steady, soft as truce.

He has retreated to his room, satisfied with the day’s campaign.

And I remain, soldier of silence, cleaning the ruins.

Counters scrubbed until they shine like polished shields.

Blankets folded with military precision.

Every trace of the day erased,

as if perfection could undo the wounds of words.

The silence is heavy,

not peace but aftermath.

It presses against my chest,

reminding me that survival is not rest—it is vigilance.

I walk the rooms like a ghost patrolling the battlefield.

Every chair remembers his verdicts.

Every wall hums with his commands.

The roof above me looms,

a wage collected, a debt unpaid.

Inside my head, the war continues.

I replay the insults,

catalogue the wounds,

map the terrain of tomorrow’s battles.

There is no victory, only endurance.

No medals, only scars.

And yet, in the quiet after midnight,

I write.

Testimony carved from exhaustion,

words as weapons,

truth as shield.

Midnight silence is not surrender.

It is record.

It is witness.

It is the only way I fight back.