Tom’s outbursts seemed random until I found a hidden calendar in his office. Every red dot marked a night he’d start a fight, disappear, then return with apologies. Five days before the next red dot, I followed him.
He led me to a warehouse where men were taught to use arguments to control their partners. It wasn’t therapy—it was manipulation. I packed my things, left the calendar on his desk with a note, “The night your game stopped being private,” and walked away for good.