My husband always said he checked my location “just to be safe.” I believed him — until the night a stranger pulled me aside and told me her story… and suddenly, mine didn’t feel so safe anymore.
At 33, I had a decent career in communications, a modest apartment I’d decorated with care, and a husband people constantly praised. “Daniel’s such a good guy,” they’d say, smiling like I’d won some kind of cosmic lottery.
He checked my location “so he wouldn’t worry,” handled our finances “because he was better with numbers,” and discouraged me from seeing certain friends “to avoid drama.” I called it protective. Sweet, even.
But now I know: control wears nice clothes.