The Price of Their Twisted Art

"She doesn't look like she needs bed rest at all."

"She's quitting? But she just landed that huge project."

"I remember Caleb promised us Coralie would stick it out for six months, through the project's critical phase. He said there'd be no issues for at least six months."

"She looks perfectly healthy. It seems a bit sudden to just give up her whole career."

"Who knows, maybe she has some hidden difficulties."

My entire pregnancy was filled with anticipation and anxiety.

Anticipation for the new life and my return to the workplace; anxiety about raising a child and starting my career again.

But as soon as the baby was born, Caleb wanted me to give up my career completely.

"Breastfeeding is healthier. You're a mother now; your first priority is the child. You can't be so selfish."

In my postpartum exhaustion, I was too weak to argue.

Looking at the baby in my arms, a wave of tenderness washed over me.

At that moment, I thought Caleb was right. I could sacrifice anything for this child.

But when I resigned, the pitying words of a former colleague—"She really gave up everything for her family"—still stung.

Caleb's words were framed as comfort, but they dripped with condescension. "People who haven't had children just don't get it. Nurturing a new life is a woman's greatest purpose."

I ordered my favorite Thai food for takeout, enjoying a moment of freedom I hadn't had since my wedding day.

Ever since I got married, I had never eaten takeout again.

Caleb claimed takeout was unhealthy but never cooked himself. He insisted I wake up early to go to the organic supermarket for fresh ingredients.

After making breakfast, I had to prepare lunch, packing a bento box for him to take to the office, all according to Caleb's organic, gluten-free philosophy and preferences.

He would say, "Darling, it's too much trouble for you to come home and cook at noon, and the back-and-forth is such a waste of time. I feel bad for you."

After work, I had to rush to buy groceries for dinner, and the moment I got home, I had to put on an apron, wash my hands, and start cooking.

After dinner came washing dishes, doing laundry, and cleaning the house.

On top of my job, I shouldered the entire burden of the housework. I was physically and mentally exhausted.

This was one of the reasons I was willing to listen to Caleb and become a stay-at-home mom.

"Be a stay-at-home mom, don't work. You'll have it so much easier. I'll support you."

He made it sound so simple, but after Willow was born, I was responsible for every aspect of her life.

He didn't know how to mix formula or change a diaper. At night, he would sleep in the guest room because he found the baby too noisy.

Yet when our daughter grew up and offered to help me sweep, he would say, "Willow, Dad will teach you, you must learn to be independent. See, sweeping is Mom's job. Mom is an adult; this is what she's supposed to do. You shouldn't help her, understand?"

I was annoyed. "Caleb, what do you mean it's my job? Housework is a shared responsibility. Willow is old enough now and wants to help her mother. Why are you teaching her that?"

"You don't have a job anymore, so whose job are the chores if not yours? We agreed I'd work and you'd manage the home. Can you be more mature? You need a child's help with something so simple? This is exactly why I have to teach Willow to be independent, so she doesn't end up like you!"

His voice suddenly rose to a shout. Willow got scared and started crying, and he turned on me again. "If you don't know how to raise a child, why are you butting in? Getting angry over nothing, do you realize you're damaging the child's mental health!"

So this was what he meant by "he'd support me."

I wasn't working, but I was doing just as much work; it was no easier than having a job. And he thought this was how I should achieve self-worth.

And then there was his constant talk about teaching our child to be independent.

I found it ironic. Parents are role models for their children. He himself was a hopeless slob—he’d step over a spill on the floor for three days straight and walk right past an overflowing trash can without a second glance. What right did he have to teach a child to be independent?

He weaponized phrases like "personal space" and "respecting her choices" to manipulate me at every turn.

Not cooking what Willow liked was disrespecting her, not picking her up from school on time was disrespecting her, entering her room without permission was disrespecting her, and if I found trash in her room, that was an invasion of her personal space.

Respect, boundaries... for the sake of their twisted theories, I paid with my life.

But who ever respected me?