When I got married, everyone around me said I was lucky.
“He chose you himself,” my relatives would whisper with smiles. “That means he really wanted you.”
At the time, I believed that too.
Ours was somewhere between an arranged marriage and a love story. My husband saw me once, sent a proposal through his family, and within weeks our engagement was fixed. In the beginning, he tried hard to win me over. He called often, spoke gently, and made me feel important. I thought I had found a man who respected me.
What I did not realize was that sometimes a marriage can begin with warmth and still slowly turn cold.
The problems started before the wedding.
His mother never truly accepted me. I could feel it in the way she looked at me, the way she spoke around me, and the constant comparisons she made. She had wanted a doctor for a daughter-in-law. I was only a finance student from a simple family. No matter how polite I tried to be, I always felt like I was being measured against some invisible woman who was prettier, richer, more educated, or somehow more worthy.
Then came the arguments about the marriage gifts and the dowry expectations.
My parents had clearly said, “We are not greedy people. Whatever amount you think is fair for the marriage contract is fine with us.”
Even then, his mother kept bringing up money, jewelry, clothes for relatives, and endless little complaints. At that time, I was too innocent to understand what was happening. I thought maybe wedding stress makes people act strangely.
Now I know the truth.
She wanted the relationship to break before the wedding ever happened.
But it didn’t.
We got married anyway.
Three days after the wedding, my husband left and returned overseas for work, leaving me behind with his family. Those days became the beginning of a version of myself I no longer recognize.
My mother-in-law made sure I never forgot I was unwanted.
“You people didn’t give us enough.”
“You didn’t bring gold.”
“We had better proposals.”
“I never liked you. My son forced this marriage.”
The words were constant, sharp, and exhausting. I had never experienced rejection like that before. Back in Lahore, I had grown up surrounded by love, respect, and opportunity. I had received proposals from educated families and decent men, but I believed marriage should be about connection, not status.
So I chose this life.
And now every day I wondered why.
At first, my husband defended me. He would argue with his family and tell them to stop. Those moments gave me hope. I kept telling myself that as long as he stood beside me, things would eventually improve.
But over time, something changed.
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Or maybe the real person simply appeared.
Later, I moved to the UAE to live with him. I started working there and tried to build our life from scratch. I became pregnant soon after arriving. I still remember those long exhausting days: waking up early, cleaning the apartment, cooking meals, then spending nearly four hours commuting by metro while carrying a child inside me.
I was tired all the time.
Still, I never complained.
Every month, I handed my entire salary to my husband. I trusted him completely. I thought that was what supportive wives did. He managed the money while I managed everything else.
Back then, he still treated me kindly.
After my son was born, I left my job because I could not bear the idea of leaving my baby with a nanny all day. A few months later, my company offered me a work-from-home position with half my original salary. I accepted because I wanted to continue contributing financially while raising my child myself.
With that money, I bought diapers, baby clothes, medicine, food, toys — every little thing my son needed.
But this time, I did not hand over every dollar to my husband.
If he needed money, I gave it to him. But I kept enough for the baby because children are expensive, and no one else was thinking about those costs.
That was when the tension truly began.
Suddenly, I was accused of being selfish.
He never gave me personal spending money. Not once. Even during the periods when I had no income, he never sat beside me and said, “Here, buy something for yourself.”
Still, I cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, folded laundry, packed meals, and took care of our child without fail. I never let the house fall apart.
Then he brought his mother to stay with us.
He told me the reason was because I occasionally had to visit the office for work. But the entire expense of bringing her over was taken from my money.
“She’s coming because of your job,” he said.
So once again, I paid silently.
But the real problem was never money.
It was the loneliness.
Whenever I left the room, his mother would complain about me to him. Then later he would confront me angrily.
“Why did you disrespect my mother?”
“Why did you say this?”
Even when I had said nothing at all.
Every day became the same painful routine.
I would leave for work exhausted and return home drained. My son would be hungry and crying. I would feed him first. Then I would find my mother-in-law waiting for food. I would cook for everyone, clean the kitchen, organize the apartment, wash dishes, and prepare for the next day.
By night, I felt like my body no longer belonged to me.
Then I found out I was pregnant again.
I cried for hours after seeing the test result.
Not because I did not love my child already, but because I was barely surviving with one baby. I was mentally exhausted, physically broken, and emotionally alone.
Still, we continued the pregnancy.
During that time, I received almost no care. No emotional support. No concern about my health. I often skipped proper meals because there was simply too much work to do. Later, doctors said the baby’s growth was being affected.
Even hearing that did not change anything at home.
After my second delivery, I returned from the hospital with stitches still fresh on my body. My older son was hungry, so I placed the newborn carefully on the bed and walked into the kitchen to cook.
I remember standing there in pain, holding onto the counter because my body felt weak, and thinking:
“So this is motherhood.”
Not the beautiful version people post online.
Not the smiling photos.
Not the flowers and gifts.
Just pain, exhaustion, and silence.
That was also when I began experiencing postpartum depression, though I did not know the name for it yet.
I cried constantly. Tiny things would break me. Before delivery, I had prepared freezer meals, ironed my husband’s clothes, cleaned the apartment, and organized everything because I did not want him inconvenienced after the baby arrived.
But during arguments, he would still say, “Leave. Go back to your parents. I’ll send you divorce papers.”
I used to sit awake at night holding my children and wondering where exactly he expected me to go.
How does a woman walk out into the night carrying two babies?
Where is she supposed to sleep?
Who catches her when she falls apart?
Eventually, I came back to Pakistan for some rest and to see my family.
But even from a distance, nothing changed.
The fights continued over phone calls and messages. Every disagreement ended with threats.
“Don’t come back.”
“Stay there.”
“I’ll divorce you.”
Sometimes he hit me during arguments too. Even writing those words still hurts because I never imagined I would become a woman who says, “My husband hit me.”
I used to hear stories like that and think those women must have seen warning signs.
Now I know pain does not always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it enters quietly, one insult at a time.
One sacrifice at a time.
One lonely night at a time.
The worst part is that despite everything I did, he still believed I contributed nothing.
If I worked, he said I worked for myself.
But every meal was cooked before he came home. The children were bathed and dressed. The house stayed clean. His clothes were ironed. His needs were handled before he even mentioned them.
Still, it was never enough.
He never bought the children proper clothes unless forced. He complained about diapers being expensive. He acted as though basic care for his own children was an unnecessary burden.
Meanwhile, I dreamed of giving my children a different life.
A life where they would never feel financially trapped.
A life where love would not be mixed with fear.
A life where home would feel safe.
What hurts me most now is watching him lose patience with the children. He gets angry quickly and sometimes hits them too. Every time it happens, something inside me breaks.
Because I know exactly how it feels to live in fear inside your own home.
I am not perfect either. There were moments when I shouted back. Moments when exhaustion turned into anger. Moments when I sat crying for hours, begging him to understand me.
But he never even asked why I was crying.
Not once.
That realization changed something inside me forever.
People think love disappears in dramatic moments.
But sometimes love dies quietly.
It dies the day your pain stops mattering to someone.
It dies the day you realize you could disappear emotionally and the other person would still sleep peacefully.
And now I sit here wondering what happens next.
I look at my children and my heart aches. I do not want them growing up in a broken home. But I also do not want them growing up believing this kind of marriage is normal.
I spent years trying to save this relationship by sacrificing myself piece by piece.
And somewhere along the way, I disappeared completely.
Now the hardest question is no longer whether my marriage can survive.
The hardest question is whether I can survive if nothing changes at all.
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