The Truth Game That Destroyed My Marriag

On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband and I played Truth or Dare.

He swirled the wine in his glass, half-smiling. I used to have feelings for your best friend. A pause. Do you believe me?

A gust of wind swept through the open window and snuffed out the memorial candle I kept lit for her. The sudden darkness felt like an omen.

His laugh came out too quick, too nervous. "I'm kidding. Relax."

I didn't blink.

"I killed someone."

The silence stretched. Then I added, "I'm not kidding."

The color drained from his face. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe the weight of my words finally cut through his haze. Either way, the alcohol seemed to evaporate from his system in an instant.

"Stop it." His voice hardened. "That's not funny."

My fingers dug into his sleeve. "Do you want to know what she said before she died?"

He wrenched his arm away, his expression curdling. The mood was ruined. He stood, turning his back on me.

"Go to sleep. Look at the time."

The bedroom door clicked shut. Through the wood, I heard his muffled mutter.

*Lunatic.*

He was right.

I really was crazy.

I had been crazy from the moment I married him.

---

Five years ago, we were fresh graduates. I was the valedictorianthe one with the brightest future. A prestigious job offer. A boyfriend of four years. A best friend who always put me first.

When I announced the pregnancy and the wedding, everyone showered me with blessings.

Everyone except her.

She had grabbed my hand, her grip desperate.

"Ellie, think about this. *Really* think about it." Her eyes were wide with worry. "Your career is taking off. Three more months and you'll get that promotion. You'll be making a million a year. You'll have *everything*. Why throw it away?"

I pulled my hand free.

"Don't you want me to be happy? You're not married. You don't understand."

Because of the early wedding and the pregnancy, I lost the promotion.

It was a pity. But I didn't regret it. Not then. I was drowning in the sweetness of love, blind to everything else. I thought marriage was the destination. The happy ending.

I walked into that wedding hall full of hope.

I didn't realize I had walked off a cliff.

---

To the outside world, my life was perfect.

My husband was tall, handsome, successful. My son was adorable. I didn't have to work. We lived in a sprawling apartment with a scenic view in the heart of the city.

"You're so lucky," people would say, envy dripping from their voices. "You married such a good man."

But they didn't know.

Our marriage was a stagnant pool, rotting from the inside.

In the beginning, there was passion. We were inseparable. But slowly, the romance evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of mundane chores. Poetry and dreams were buried under piles of laundry and grocery lists.

My pregnancy was brutal. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep.

At first, he would hold me, his voice soft. "You're working so hard, honey."

But as the weeks turned into months, his patience frayed. My suffering became an inconvenience.

"All women go through this," he said one evening, not looking up from his phone. "Just endure it."

I asked for a glass of water.

He didn't even lift his eyes.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Why are you so delicate? Other women get pregnant without making such a fuss."

A chill settled into my bones.

*Men mature late,* I told myself. *Once the baby is here, he'll change.*

Then came the delivery.

My in-lawswho had ignored my entire pregnancyfinally showed up at the hospital. They didn't ask how I was. They didn't even look at me. They swarmed the baby, beaming with joy, while I lay in the bed.

Exhausted.

Invisible.

My milk ducts clogged.

Searing pain shot through my chest until I burned with fever. My husband didn't offer a single word of comfort. Instead, as our son wailed from hunger, he glared at me.

"Can't you do anything right? You're useless."

The chill struck again, freezing a little more of my heart.

At night, the baby cried constantly. My husband moved to the guest room, claiming he needed his sleep for work. From that moment on, the feeding, the diapers, the endless rockingall of it fell on me.

With no one to help, I had to grit my teeth and resign from the job I loved. I became a housewife. A woman who had to hold out her hand for money.

My world shrank. No friends. No social life. Just endless cleaning, scrubbing bottles, and the piercing wail of an infant. I was a machine, running twenty-four hours a day.

My husband would come home, announce that he was tired, and collapse onto the sofa to scroll through videos or play games.

If I asked him to watch the baby for ten minutes, he would pretend not to hear. If he did agree, he wouldn't movehis eyes stayed glued to the screen.

Before marriage, he used to help with chores. Now, he stepped over piles of laundry and ignored the clutter as if it didn't exist.

If I complained, his face would darken.

"You stay home all day. You do a little cleaning and watch a kid. Why are you always acting like you're so exhausted?"

The ice in my chest hardened.

I tried to talk to him, to share small moments from my day. At first, he would grunt in response. Later, he just snapped.

"Are you annoying or what? I don't care about these trivial things. I work all day. Can't you just let me have some peace?"

He slammed the bedroom door in my face. Moments later, the sound of video game gunfire and his laughter drifted through the wood.

I stood in the hallway, blinking back tears, refusing to let them fall.

---

Then came the night our son spiked a high fever.

He cried until his voice was hoarse.

"Shut him up!" my husband yelled from the other room. "You can't even take care of a child properly?"

Outside, a storm was raging. I begged him to drive us to the hospital.

"I have work tomorrow." He turned over in bed. "Call a taxi."

The final ember of hope inside me died.

My son was burning up. I grabbed the medical bag, wrapped him in a blanket, and ran out into the downpour. Rain lashed against my face, mixing with the tears I could no longer hold back.

Sitting in the hospital hallway, watching the IV drip into my son's small arm, I remembered our wedding vows.

*I will cherish you. I will never let you suffer.*

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

The most ridiculous lie I had ever heard. I thought I had found shelter from the storm.

But he *was* the storm.

---

When we finally returned home, the apartment was a disaster. Dirty clothes littered the floor. A mountain of unwashed dishes rotted in the sink.

Something inside me snapped.

I didn't scream. I just walked into the kitchen and swept the stack of bowls onto the floor.

*CRASH.*

Porcelain exploded. Shards skittered across the tiles. My son screamed in terror.

My husband rushed out of the bedroom, phone still in his hand, the game paused.

"Are you crazy?" Disgust twisted his features.

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.

I got him the best tutors. Enrolled him in the best classes. Sacrificed everything for him.

But as he grew, something twisted.

Despite the fact that I was the one who was always therehe became disrespectful. He rolled his eyes at my rules. He snapped at me. He threw tantrums whenever he didn't get his way.

Yet he looked at his fatherthe man who barely knew himwith absolute adoration.

*Boys are just closer to their fathers,* I told myself. *It's a phase.*

Until that night.

---

It was 9:00 PM. I had just finished the housework, my back aching. My son was sprawled on the sofa, watching TV, a bag of potato chips in his hand.

"Go wash up and get to bed. You have kindergarten tomorrow."

He ignored me.

My husband sat next to him, scrolling on his phone, equally deaf to my voice.

"I said go to bed." My voice rose.

My son suddenly hurled the bag of chips across the room.

"I know! You're so annoying! All you do is nag, nag, nag!"

"Can you stop *controlling* me?"

Chips exploded over the sofa I had just vacuumed. Crumbs scattered everywhere.

The string that had been holding me together finally snapped.

"I am your *mother*!" My voice shook the walls. "If I don't control you, who will? And I told you not to throw food!"

My son jumped up, stomping his feet in a rage that mirrored his father's.

"Who cares if you're my mom? I don't *want* you! Why don't you just go die?"

The world stopped.

I froze, the air punched out of my lungs. Those wordsfrom the child I had sacrificed my life for. The treasure I had held in my palm.

He started crying. A loud, retching sob. Acting as if *he* were the victim.

My husband finally looked up, frowning.

"It's just some crumbs. He stayed up a little late. Do you have to scream like a banshee?"

My face drained of blood. My hands trembled.

"Did you hear what he just said to me?"

He waved a hand dismissively, his eyes drifting back to his screen.

"He's just a child. You're taking an angry kid's words seriously? How old is he, and how old are you? Stop being so dramatic."

"Look at yourself. What is the difference between you and a lunatic?"

Cole's voice could have flash-frozen steel. No comfort. No concern. Just undisguised disgust dripping from every syllable.

He snatched Jonathan's hand, yanking him away from me. "Come on. Daddy will get you cleaned up. We won't lower ourselves to this madwoman's level."

Not a single backward glance. The bathroom door clicked shut behind them.

The sofa cushion beneath me might as well have been concrete. My mind churneda storm with no eye, no center, no escape. By the time the tremors in my hands finally stilled, half an hour had bled away into silence.

The apartment was tomb-quiet. No sounds from Jonathan's room. He must have cried himself to sleep.

But unease prickled along my spine like tiny needles. I couldn't rest. Not until I saw him.

The hinges whispered as I eased his door open.

Jonathan lay curled beneath his comforter, but the tear tracks on his cheeks glistened in the dim light. Every few seconds, a small, ragged sob escaped his lipseven in sleep.

Guilt clawed at my chest, sharp and relentless. I wanted to slap myself. *This is my son. The person I love most in this entire world.*

I tucked the blanket tighter around his small shoulders and straightened up. Tomorrow was his birthday. The Ultraman figure he'd been begging for sat on his desk; I positioned it front and centerthe first thing he'd see when he opened his eyes.

I imagined the joy spreading across his face come morning.

My hand reached out, almost absently, to right the family portrait lying face-down on the desk.

I turned it over.

The smile died on my lips.

My face had been scribbled out with thick, black marker.

Bitterness surged up my throat, tasting like bile. *He's just a child,* I told myself. *Being naughty. A prank. That's all.*

As I set the frame down, my elbow caught the edge of his diary. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

I bent to retrieve it. The notebook had fallen open.

The words swam into focus.

My blood turned to ice.

Row after row of dense, angry scrawls covered the page:

*Mommy, go die.*