You married him believing you were finally closing the door on the hell you had lived through with your aunt after your family died. You told yourself that marriage would be your escape. A safe roof. A steady hand. A heart that might hold you gently. Anything was better than feeling like an unwanted guest in other people’s lives. The first night arrived. Your heart trembled between fear and fragile hope. You sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for a kind word, a reassuring glance—something to tell you that you hadn’t made a mistake. But he looked at you with cold indifference, as if you were a burden placed in his path. Without coming any closer, he said flatly, “Take your pillow and sleep in the guest room.”