I had no freedom. I couldn’t even choose what I was going to wear. She did all of that.
At first, it seemed harmless. Thoughtful, even. She would leave clothes out on the bed for me, saying things like, “This will look good on you,” or “I love when you wear this.” I didn’t think much of it. I liked making her happy.
But then it stopped being a choice.
If I picked out something for myself, she’d sigh, tilt her head, and say, “You’re not wearing that, are you?” If I put on something she hadn’t chosen, she’d cross her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line, staring at me like I’d just embarrassed her.
So I stopped choosing.
She even picked out what socks I would wear.
It wasn’t just about clothes. It was about control. I wasn’t a person to her—I was more her fashion accessory. Just there to fit her image. Something to show off, something to mould.
I only realised how deep it had gone when I caught my reflection one day. I didn’t recognise the man staring back at me. The hair, the clothes, the posture—it wasn’t me. It was the version of me she had created.
It’s humiliating when I look back at it. I couldn’t be me.
And the worst part? I don’t think she ever saw anything wrong with it.
She dressed me like she decorated a room. Everything in its place. Everything exactly how she wanted it.
I wasn’t a person to her. Just part of the design.
But I wasn’t a prop.
So one morning, I did something small. I put on the wrong socks. Something she hadn’t picked. Something bright and ridiculous.
And when she saw them, her face twisted, her voice sharp. “What are those?”
I just smiled.
It was the beginning. The tiniest act of rebellion.
