I wanted to apply for a job, nothing fancy, just working at the local shop.
Something simple. A way to earn my own money, meet people, have a reason to leave the house.
But he wouldn’t let me.
“Why would you want to work there?”
“We don’t need the money.”
“You should be at home.”
He kept insisting, shutting it down before I even had a chance to explain. Like my wants didn’t matter. Like they weren’t even worth considering.
All I wanted was to do something. To feel like a person again.
But every time I brought it up, he had an excuse, a reason why it wasn’t a good idea. And the worst part? He made it sound like he was doing it for me.
“You’ll be too tired.”
“It’s not a nice job.”
“What if I need you here?”
He made it sound like he cared.
But I knew the truth.
He wasn’t protecting me. He was controlling me.
He was holding me back from living my life, from being independent.
Because if I had a job, I’d have money.
If I had money, I’d have options.
And if I had options, I wouldn’t need him.
And that’s what scared him the most.