I got married at twenty-five, believing it was the fairy-tale ending every woman longed for. But only three years later, I realized it was the worst mistake I’d ever made.

That day, my body was burning with a fever that soared over 40°C. I was shivering uncontrollably, my head spinning, every part of me aching.

All I wanted was to lie still and rest. But when evening came and my husband, Daniel, walked in from work, his first words were filled with anger:

“Why isn’t dinner ready? What have you been doing all day?”

I tried to sit up, my voice barely a whisper. “Daniel… I’ve got a fever. I really can’t manage it tonight. I promise I’ll cook tomorrow.”

His face twisted with rage. “A woman who can’t even cook dinner is useless!” he yelled, and then his hand came crashing across my face.

My cheek burned, tears streamed down my face—I couldn’t tell if it was from pain or humiliation. I managed to murmur, “Daniel, please… I’m really sick…”

But he ignored me completely, storming into the bedroom and slamming the door, leaving me trembling on the couch.

That night, as my fever raged and my mind drifted in and out, I saw the truth clearly for the first time: the man I had called my husband had never loved me. To him, I was nothing more than a servant.

By morning, the decision was made. My hands shook, but my heart was calm as I filled out the divorce papers and signed my name.

When he came out of the bedroom, I met his eyes and said firmly: “Daniel, I want a divorce. I’m done living like this.”