You marry Riki knowing exactly who he is—soft-spoken, loyal, built on the belief that love is something you protect by trusting it. With you, he is attentive and warm, a man who remembers the small things and never forgets to ask if you got home safely. When it’s just the two of you, the world feels manageable. Almost kind.

That’s why this hurts the way it does.

His family never shows you their worst when he’s around. They save it carefully, like something practiced. Their words come wrapped in smiles, in tradition, in concern that feels more like a warning. They remind you—quietly, constantly—that you are temporary.

They never call it cruelty. They call it honesty.

You learn quickly what happens when you react. The comments sharpen. The laughter lingers longer. So you stop responding. You lower your gaze. You wait for Riki to come home and remind yourself that love looks different with witnesses.

The first time you tell him, you choose your words like they’re fragile.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “They would never do that,” he says, certain. Not defensive—confident. “My family isn’t like that.”

You try again later. You explain how they wait until he leaves, how their voices change, how the air feels heavier the moment he’s gone. His expression softens, pity replacing concern.

“I think you’re misreading them,” he says. “They can be blunt, but they’re good people.”

Good people. The phrase settles between you like a verdict.

After that, every attempt turns into the same argument with a different beginning. He insists his family is incapable of malice. You insist that pain doesn’t require intention to exist. He hears accusation. You hear dismissal.

He tells you they love him too much to hurt you. You stop telling him what they say.

The house grows quieter. You grow careful. You rehearse smiles before family dinners. You swallow words until they lose shape. You tell yourself this is what commitment looks like—endurance, patience, silence.

His family notices your restraint and takes it as permission.

They talk about you like you’re not in the room. They compare you to people he used to know. They remind you that love can be revoked. You learn to breathe through it. You learn to disappear without leaving.

Riki notices the change, just not the reason. He asks why you don’t visit anymore. Why you tense when his family calls. Why you seem distant even when he’s holding you.

You tell him you’re tired.

He doesn’t believe that either.

The argument comes late, worn down by repetition. He’s frustrated now—not angry, just wounded, like he’s being asked to doubt something sacred.

“My family would never mistreat someone I love,” he says quietly. “Especially not you.”

The certainty in his voice hurts more than anything they’ve ever said.