I started to laugh. I couldn't stop. A ragged, hysterical sound clawed its way out of my throat until I was gasping for air, tears streaming down my face.
In that moment, I wished I *was* crazy.
If I lost my mind, maybe I wouldn't have to feel this suffocating despair.
He didn't know how many times I had stood on the balcony, looking down at the concrete, wondering if the fall would bring peace.
But then I would see my son's face.
And I would step back.
He was the only thing keeping me here. My only tether to this miserable life.
"Lunatic," my husband spat.
He scooped up our son and retreated to the bedroom.
---
From that day on, our home became a tomb. Cold. Silent.
In public, we played the part of the happy couple. In private, we only spoke about the boy. I cooked, cleaned, and raised our child like a single mother while he watched from the sidelines with indifferent eyes.
Occasionally, when the mood struck him, he would play with our son for a few minutes.
The "fun dad."
Years bled into one another. My patience eroded. I became irritable. Short-tempered. I gave up on my husband completely and poured every ounce of my energy into my son.