It’s laughable now — but it wasn’t at the time.
I remember it so clearly.
Standing on the driveway in France, once again about to leave him.
Not for the first time. Not even the second. This had become a pattern.

But I was getting stronger.
Braver.
This time, I asked for my car keys and passport back.

He’d taken them — again — thinking it would make me stay.
But I’d reached my limit.

I stood tall and said,
“Give them back or I’ll call the police.”

I will never forget his face.
So pathetic.
So pitiful.

And then, the words that sealed everything for me. Not:

• “Please don’t go.”
• “I love you.”
• “I’m sorry. I’ll get help.”
• “I didn’t mean it.”
• “I’ll never do it again.”

No.
All he said was:
“What am I going to do?”
“What about me?”

That was it.
Not concern for me. Not remorse. Not accountability.
Just panic about his situation, his discomfort, his loss of control.

And in that moment, everything clicked.
Because that’s what abuse is so often rooted in:
Control. Entitlement. Ego.

Not love.

He didn’t care that I was hurting.
He didn’t worry about the years of fear, the manipulation, the moments I cried myself to sleep.
He just couldn’t stand the idea that I might leave — that I might escape his grip.

That driveway moment became a defining one.
Not because of what he said, but because of what I finally saw.

For too long, I’d tried to make it work.
Tried to help him. Fix him. Understand him.
Tried to be patient, forgiving, empathic — even when he wasn’t any of those things to me.

But that moment showed me the truth.
He didn’t want a partner. He wanted control.
He didn’t want to love me. He wanted to keep me.

And the day you stop asking why he did it and start asking why you stayed,
is the day everything begins to change.

If you’ve ever had a moment like that — where the fog lifts and the truth stings —
please know this:

✨ You’re not weak for staying.
✨ You’re not broken for loving him.
✨ You’re not stupid for trying.

You were doing your best with what you knew.
But now, you know better.
Now, you are rising.

That moment on the driveway might’ve been terrifying —
but it was also the beginning of freedom.
And freedom, my love, looks good on you.