My Husband Humiliated Me for Years. One Day, I Decided It Was Enough.

As I anxiously remove the cheesecake from the oven, the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon permeates the room. Even though I know the recipe by heart, my hands shake a little as I check it again. I tell myself that it must be flawless this time.

“The guests are anticipating dessert, Andrei!” As usual, his voice comes from the living room, impatient and patronizing.

I garnished the cheesecake with fresh raspberries after carefully cutting it. Every action is planned, and his words from the last family meal are still ringing in my head, making me more anxious: “As usual, clumsy hands.” Not even able to properly cut a cake.

His parents, sister, and her husband all greet me with courteous smiles as soon as I walk into the living room. Only his mother gives me her typical squint of disapproval.

“Look, there’s our tiny chef!” Andrei declares with a grin that is more incisive than any slight. “Hopefully, she didn’t let us down with another catastrophe this time.”

I set the plates down without a word, avoiding their eyes. The first person to try it is Andrei. I hold my breath as the moment lengthens.

With a dramatic grimace, he starts, “Hmm.” “This? Is this what you call a cheesecake? Bony dry! I’ve told you a hundred times: don’t go above 160 degrees. Even for you, it isn’t that difficult.

I start to apologize, but he interrupts.

To be honest, how difficult is it to follow a recipe? I sometimes feel that I would have been better off marrying someone who is skilled in the kitchen.

There’s a burst of awkward, muted laughter, but it still happens. I stand frozen, heat rising in my cheeks, my grip tightening on the tray.

I stand in front of our bedroom mirror that evening as the house becomes quiet. I can’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are dead, her shoulders are hunched, and her face is pale. Where had the happy, intelligent girl gone who had once dreamed of happiness and love?

Andrei’s arrogant and contemptuous voice echoes from the living room:

“Isn’t it unbelievable? Once more, she made a mess of the cheesecake. I’m not sure how to handle her.

Something snaps inside. Silently, but irrevocably.

I hardly slept at all that night. My thoughts are clear for the first time in a decade. A simple but terrifying plan starts to take shape.

Andrei awakens the following morning strapped to the bed. He has a sharp, incredulous voice.

“Have you gone insane, Masha? Get me untied!

For the first time in years, I am at ease as I stand above him.

Ten years is a long time to put up with your cruelty, Andrei, I say, running a finger down his cheek. However, it’s also enough time to pick up some new skills. similar to how to prepare the ideal cheesecake.

His tone wavers as fear creeps in as he tries to give me orders. “This isn’t amusing. Let me go!

“Oh, I’m serious. You enjoy doing that, don’t you? Make fun of me, degrade me, and make me feel insignificant. I speak steadily as I pace the room.

I describe all the times he broke me, including during our wedding, family dinners, and even after my miscarriages. As I speak, his face goes white. This time, he’s paying attention.

“Andrei, you destroyed every aspect of me that used to feel alive. However, that is no longer the case.

He freaks out when I begin packing. “You can’t go! What are people going to say? How about me?

With my suitcase in hand, I turn to face him. “That is now your issue. Allow your mother to instruct you in cheesecake baking.

I message his sister before I leave, saying, “Come by the house in a few hours.” Under the mat is the key.

His cries and threats fade into silence as I shut the door behind me. I look in the mirror in the hallway—bright eyes, a resolute smile. I feel free for the first time in ten years.

A week later, I’m enjoying a hot chocolate in a quaint café on the outskirts of Barcelona. Like the pastries on the counter, the aroma of freedom is sweet. My phone is constantly buzzing with messages from neighbors, mutual friends, and even Andrei’s family. I disregard them all.

My attention is drawn to an email:

We would love to talk about publishing your story because we are interested in it.

I look at The Story of a Marriage, the draft I’ve been putting my all into, and I smile. It’s an honest, therapeutic, and unvarnished story that I hope will encourage other women to take back their lives.

After several months, I finally open my own bakery. I inherited the business from José, the benevolent old baker who taught me everything I know. I now make cheesecakes, croissants, and tarts every morning; they are all perfect, but they are made for people who value them.

A Russian magazine with a picture of Andrei and his new girlfriend is resting on a table by the window. A Redemptive Story: A Businessman Considers His Errors. I chuckle and throw it in the garbage.

My phone rings. A woman from a support center is there.

“Maria, so many women have been inspired by your book. Would you give a speech at one of our gatherings?

“Obviously,” I say with a smile.

I sit on my balcony that night and watch the sun set over the ocean. The future is bright and the air is warm. For years, I believed that getting Andrei’s approval and pleasing other people were the main goals of my life. I know better now.