When I showed up to Christmas with a split lip—David’s response to me getting a bonus he didn’t know about—Dad took David aside. My heart soared. Finally, someone would defend me. But I heard them laughing minutes later, Dad clapping David’s shoulder.

“Women, right? They don’t understand the pressure we’re under.”

My younger sister Sarah was worse. “At least you have someone,” she’d say, scrolling through dating apps. “Do you know how hard it is out there? David’s successful, handsome, wants kids. Stop being so dramatic.”

At company events, David would introduce me as his better half who keeps the home fires burning—while I stood there with two law degrees and a case win rate that made partners jealous. My own family would beam with pride. Their daughter had married well.

The last straw came six months ago at my nephew’s birthday party. David backhanded me in the garage for contradicting him about mortgage rates. My mother walked in, saw my face, saw his hand still raised, and quietly closed the door.