For eleven years, I had made myself smaller.

I had edited medical transcripts until two in the morning while my husband slept.

I had sold my mother’s jewelry to fund his ambitions.

I had signed documents I did not read because I had been taught to trust a man who did not deserve it, and I had let that man convince me, day by day, year by year, that I was living on his generosity, that I was fortunate he tolerated me, that my role was to shrink and support and stay quiet.

I had believed, genuinely believed, that making myself smaller was the way to keep my family whole.