The Pain of Being Invisible
“I’m leaving because you did nothing,” I said, holding his gaze. “When I needed support, when I cried silently behind a closed door, when I asked for help without words—you did nothing.”
“When I was bedridden with the flu and could barely lift my head, you didn’t even make me a cup of tea. You did nothing.”
“When my father died and I felt like my heart had been ripped out, you couldn’t even hold my hand. You did nothing.”
“When I battled depression during menopause and didn’t recognize myself in the mirror, you told me to ‘cheer up.’ You did nothing.”
His eyes flicked away, then back to mine. “You never told me.”
“Oh, I did,” I said quietly. “I told you when I begged for your help, when I asked for therapy. I told you when I curled up beside you on the couch, longing for a kiss, and you barely noticed. I told you with every disappointed sigh, every dinner eaten in silence.”
“You thought everything was fine because you were fine. But I wasn’t.”
