He never really loved you. He loved the idea of you: a woman who is an amazing mother, the kind he never had, someone who would love him unconditionally in all the ways he thought himself unworthy, but not you. His love was always conditional. As long as he got his way. As long as you made it easy on him, do the heavy lifting and be thankful when he wipes your brow and pats your back. When he said he would never hurt you or your children, he just knew what you wanted to hear…needed to hear, but he would never even bite his tongue to spare any of tou the lashing. You know what you did wrong? You closed your eyes. You stopped watching and you listened and you choose to believe what you wanted. Dont upset the apple cart. Listen to the sweet nothings. He enjoyed it while it fed his own ego and made him look good or polished his reflection as a narcissist. He loved the way it made him look like a better man but he wasnt. He wasnt even a man. He was a trapped little boy, scared to really ever take the chance you gave him to have all the things he *said* he wanted. Facade. Smoke and mirrors. Masks. Everything you didn’t want or need.
Maybe you’ve never really been loved by any hand that has touched you. I mean, Jesus, look at the things you’re own father, saint to others, has done to you even recently.
Maybe those things never existed or will. Maybe they don’t make men like they used to. Maybe they never did.