He Told Me I Smelled Bad – But The Truth Was Worse
After my husband repeatedly told me I smelled bad, I started showering twice a day, applying deodorant every other hour, and brushing my teeth 5 times a day. One day, I overheard him speaking nervously with my MIL. He was saying that he “couldn’t keep doing this much longer,” and that “she’s not picking up on the hints.”
At first, I thought he meant my hygiene. I froze behind the door, clutching the laundry basket like it might explain something to me. My heart thudded in my chest as I listened harder.
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Buzz Day
“She just doesn’t get it,” he whispered. “I’ve tried everything. The smell thing, pulling away, not being around much… I don’t want to hurt her. I just want out.”
I stood there, numb, blinking rapidly like that would change what I’d just heard. The “smell thing”? Pulling away? He wanted out? My stomach twisted as I realized the truth—I wasn’t the problem. I never had been.
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He was trying to make me feel like the problem. That’s why no matter how much I cleaned myself, he still looked at me with that quiet disgust. That’s why he stopped touching me. That’s why he worked late even when I knew he didn’t have much going on at the office.
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I put the basket down slowly and walked away before he noticed me. My mind raced as I entered the bedroom. Everything started to click. The subtle digs. The emotional distance. His restlessness.
But it hurt. God, it hurt.
I’d spent months scrubbing myself raw, paranoid about every little scent or flaw, blaming myself for the wall growing between us. And all along, it was him. He was trying to make me feel unworthy so that I’d be the one to walk away—so he wouldn’t have to be the bad guy.
That night, I lay beside him in bed, stiff and silent. He didn’t touch me. He hadn’t in weeks.
She Chose To Remove The Tattoos On Her Face. Look At Her Now
By morning, I had a plan.
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I didn’t confront him immediately. I needed time. Time to gather myself. Time to really see things clearly. Time to figure out who I was outside of us.
For the next two weeks, I acted as normal as I could. I still cooked dinner. I still asked about his day. I still smiled when he mumbled “goodnight.” But behind that smile, I started building my strength back up.
I began journaling again, something I hadn’t done since we got married. I called my sister every day. I started walking in the mornings before work, breathing in the air and trying to feel real again.
And slowly, something inside me began to shift.
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I started remembering who I was before him. Before the gaslighting. Before the self-doubt. I remembered the girl who used to dance in the kitchen, who used to laugh loud and snort when she did. The one who used to dream about traveling, painting, learning Italian just for fun.
I wasn’t that girl anymore. But maybe… I could find her again.
Then came the twist.
One evening, I accidentally knocked his phone off the counter while wiping it. It lit up with a message.
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It was from a woman named Cassie.
“Can’t wait to see you again. I hate sneaking around but I love you too much to stop.”
There it was. Plain as day.
I stared at it for a long moment, my hands shaking. Then, oddly, I felt a calm wash over me. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t imagining things. There really was someone else.
I took a picture of the message on my phone and then put his phone back exactly as it was.
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That night, I slept better than I had in months.
The next day, I scheduled a meeting with a divorce attorney. Quietly. Privately. I wasn’t going to make a scene. I wasn’t going to beg for answers or apologies. I just wanted out.
But before I could serve the papers, karma took the wheel.
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A week later, he came home early—something he never did. His face was pale, and he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
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“What’s wrong?” I asked calmly, even though I already knew.
He sat down at the kitchen table and put his face in his hands.
“She ended it,” he mumbled. “Cassie. She’s going back to her fiancé. Says this was a mistake.”
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I stood there, watching him. The man who made me question my own body. The man who made me feel less than. The man who had been ready to throw me away like old newspaper.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but my voice didn’t carry sorrow. It carried clarity.
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