When my husband got back from deployment, we said we were going to work on our marriage. We made promises. Said the right things. That things were going to be different. That we were going to love each other better. That everything would change.
Nothing changed.
We said we'd work on our marriage. We just didn't say which version of 'work' we meant.
My friend's husband had been deployed at the same time as mine. So when they returned, she threw a big welcome-home party for him, music, food, alcohol, the whole thing.
My neighbor across the street, who was friends with both of us, invited all the husbands. Including her newly single friend. He was attractive, flirty, probably not the best choice for a room full of wives, but he showed up anyway, snapping photos, joking with the ladies.
My husband noticed. And he did not like it.
He got weirdly jealous the entire night. Watching me. Watching the other women. Watching every laugh that wasn't about him.
I looked great. We all did. My friends and I had pre-gamed before the party. By the time we walked through the front door, I was already tipsy. Okay, white-girl wasted, if we're being honest.
I should also mention: my kids were at my sister's house for the night. They weren't home. Because I'm a responsible adult, thank you very much. I planned ahead.
My husband was happy to see me drunk. He always liked drunk sex. It was the only time our intimacy ever felt fun instead of forced. The wilder I got, the more validated he felt.
We got to the party. The drinks kept coming. I skipped the food entirely and dove straight into more alcohol. Bad idea number seven.
Eventually someone suggested we play Kings Cup. It's a drinking game where each card in the deck has a rule or challenge. My friend drew the waterfall card. Everyone starts drinking, one by one, and you can't stop until the person before you does.
I was last in line. I drank until the cup was empty and my stomach was full of regret.
The game continued. We laughed. We screamed. We slurred. The deck kept flipping, card after card, dragging us deeper into chaos.
Then it was my turn. I pulled a "Never Have I Ever."
And I said, loud, clear, and direct: "Never have I ever tried to leave my significant other."
There was a pause. My friend's husband drank. But I was staring at mine.
He hesitated… then lifted his cup and took a small sip.
I didn't look away. He had literally broken up with me via Facebook. A public post. No conversation. No explanation. Just… single. And he never apologized. Not once.
So I said it. Loud enough for the whole room:
"You never even apologized."
He stammered. Said I was drunk. Blamed the alcohol. But still, no apology. Not even now.
Something snapped. I got louder. Meaner. All of it came boiling up at once. The betrayal, the silence, the pretend-fix-it version of him that was never actually sorry.
I was rude. Belligerent. He tossed me over his shoulder like a toddler throwing a tantrum and carried me out to the car.
We lived three blocks away.
I screamed at him the whole drive. Called him every name I could string together. Told him I hated him. And I meant every word in that moment.
We got home. I kept going. Told him how worthless he was. How everything was his fault. How much I hated being married to him.
None of it was graceful. All of it was true.
I took a shower. Thought maybe I could rinse the night off me like spilled liquor. But when I came out, the rage was still there.
I found him sitting on the couch. Started screaming again.
He stood up, quiet and stone-faced, and walked into the garage. He told me not to follow him.
And when the door slammed behind him, the silence left me nowhere to put the rest of my grief.
I went looking for our kids.
Even though I knew they weren't there, I still went from room to room, searching. I needed them. Needed something small and good and mine to hold onto.
I tore the blankets off my daughter's bed. Tossed the mattress off the frame. Dug through the silence like maybe I could find her curled up and safe, even though she wasn't home.
I missed them so much it hurt.
Eventually, I collapsed in my son's bed, still crying, and passed out.
The next morning, I woke up hungover, hollow, and ashamed.
I didn't remember every word, but I remembered enough. The rage. The shouting. The crying in my son's bed.
He sat on the edge of our own bed, strangely calm.
"You don't need to apologize to me," he said. "You need to apologize to our friends. You made a fool of yourself."
And in that moment, all I felt was shame.
Not because I was cruel. Not because I had screamed. Not because I had poured out every ounce of hurt I'd been holding.
But because he made it about them. About my embarrassment. About how I looked.
Not once did he say I hurt you. Not once did he say I'm sorry, too.
Now, looking back, I see it for what it was: a power play. It wasn't about protecting our friends. It was about humiliating me all over again. Kicking me while I was already down, just dressed in concern and control.
It was never about making things right. It was about making sure I looked like the problem.
And I believed it, for a long time. I carried that shame. That guilt. That twisted little lie that my grief, my drunken pain, my brokenness was the real offense.
But now? Now I see it.
And I'd still rather be the woman who screamed in the driveway than the man who broke his wife in silence.