I thought he was fighting for us.
When Mark brought up the idea, I was relieved. We had been drifting apart, the silence in the house growing heavier by the day.
“We need help,” he said, holding my hand. “He suggested couples counseling to ‘strengthen our bond.’“.
It felt like a lifeline. I went into Dr. Evans’ office with an open heart, ready to do the hard work. I treated that beige room like a sanctuary. I lowered my defenses. I poured my heart out in sessions, admitting my insecurities and fears. I talked about my anxiety. I talked about the days I felt overwhelmed by work. I talked about the times I doubted myself as a mother.
I thought I was being brave. I thought I was building intimacy through vulnerability.
Mark sat next to me, listening intently. He brought a notebook. At the time, I thought it was sweet—proof that he was taking this seriously. He would nod and scribble furiously whenever I spoke about my struggles.
He took notes.
“I just want to remember what you need,” he told me when I asked about it.
Six months later, I sat in a very different room. This one had mahogany tables and smelled like legal fees. My lawyer slid a document across the desk toward me.
“He’s asking for full custody,” she said. “And… he has cause. Or at least, he’s arguing he does.”
I looked at the affidavit. My breath hitched.
Exhibit A: Respondent admits to crippling anxiety that prevents her from parenting. Exhibit B: Respondent confessed to feelings of inadequacy and darker thoughts on dates X, Y, and Z.
My own words, spoken in the hush of a therapist’s office, were staring back at me in black and white legal font. Every fear I had shared to heal our marriage had been transcribed, twisted, and weaponized.
When he filed for divorce, he used everything I confessed in therapy against me in court.
He hadn’t been writing down my needs. He had been documenting my “instability.” He had successfully curated a profile of a woman on the edge, using my own honesty as the evidence.
He used it to paint me as unstable and get a better settlement.
I looked back on those sessions—his intent gaze, his diligent scribbling. I realized with a sick feeling that I hadn’t been sitting next to a partner trying to bridge a gap. I had been sitting next to a spy.
He didn’t want to fix us; he was gathering ammunition. He had lured me into a false sanctuary, waited for me to disarm myself, and then cataloged every weakness so he could destroy me with precision when the real war began.
