He wasn't angry.
Anger required energy, and he had none left.
What sat inside his chest was heavier — a slow, sinking pressure that made breathing feel optional. Depression didn't scream. It whispered that nothing you did mattered, then waited patiently for you to believe it.
His parents had taught him that feeling well.
From childhood, they spoke of sacrifice like a debt he could never repay.
"We gave up our lives for you," his mother would say whenever he hesitated.
"Don't embarrass us," his father added whenever he asked questions.
They chose everything early.
What school he attended.
What subjects were "acceptable."
What dreams were childish.
When he resisted, even gently, they reminded him how much they'd invested in him — time, money, reputation.
"You owe us a good life," they said.
Not your life.
A good one.
One that looked right from the outside.
He learned quickly that disagreement led to weeks of silence, disappointment hanging in the house like humidity. Obedience brought peace. Peace was survival.
So he stopped wanting things.
Marriage came like a scheduled appointment
They chose the woman.
They approved the family.
They handled the negotiations.
"She's perfect for you," his mother insisted.
"Don't think emotionally," his father warned. "Marriage is adjustment."
He didn't feel love, but he didn't feel anything else either.
That seemed normal.
After the wedding, his parents' affection faded. Their duty was done.
The son they had shaped was now someone else's responsibility.
When problems began, they blamed him immediately.
"You should have controlled her better."
"You were never assertive."
"This marriage itself was a mistake."
They never said we were wrong.
Only you failed.
The cheating exploded, not quietly but spectacularly.
He found messages. Photos. Plans.
When he confronted her, she didn't deny it. She cried — loudly, dramatically — and called her parents before he could even finish speaking.
By evening, both families were present.
She accused him of emotional neglect.
Her parents accused him of abuse.
His parents sat stiffly, embarrassed — not by her actions, but by the scandal.
"This is what happens when you don't keep your wife happy," his father said flatly.
When he said he had proof, his mother cut him off.
Enough. Don't make this uglier."
By morning, the story had been rewritten.
She was the victim.
He was the failure.
The child turned against him within days.Children learned fast when adults coached them.
You're not my real dad," the boy yelled one night, eyes filled with borrowed hatred.
"You made Mom cry."
"I don't want to see you again."
Each word landed deep, not because it was cruel — but because he believed he deserved it.He tried to explain.
Tried to apologize for things he hadn't done.
The boy slammed the door.His parents didn't stop him.They didn't comfort their son either.
"Maybe it's better this way," his mother muttered. "People are talking."
The law moved swiftly.In court, his truth didn't matter.What mattered was gender, optics, and precedent.She filed multiple cases — cruelty, abandonment, emotional abuse.Each one came with automatic assumptions.He was advised to settle."Men rarely win these," the lawyer said quietly. "The system is… tilted."Alimony was calculated without considering his parents' control over his finances.Maintenance was ordered despite the child not being his biologically.
He asked his parents for help — not emotionally, just financially.
They refused.
"We won't waste money on this disgrace," his father said.
"You brought this shame on us."They didn't support their daughter-in-law out of love.They supported society's judgment.And they hated him for making them look bad.
Depression crept in slowly, then all at once.He stopped eating properly.Stopped answering calls.Stopped correcting lies.Mornings felt heavy. Nights felt endless.
He replayed conversations again and again, wondering where he went wrong — even when logic told him he hadn't.
That was the worst part.
Depression made guilt feel factual.He lost the house.He lost access to the child he had raised.He lost whatever fragile sense of worth he'd been holding together.Friends drifted away, uncomfortable.Colleagues avoided eye contact.
Alone in a rented room, surrounded by boxes he never unpacked, he finally understood something painful:He wasn't weak because he obeyed.He was broken because no one had ever let him be anything else.He didn't want to die.That was the cruel irony.He just didn't know how to live anymore.Every path forward required strength he didn't have, money he didn't possess, or support that had been withdrawn.Therapy cost money.Legal appeals cost money.Starting over required belief.
He had none left.
That night, he sat quietly, staring at nothing.
He thought of the boy calling him a monster.
Of his parents' disappointed faces.
Of a life where every decision had been made for him — and every consequence blamed on him.
Tears came late, silently.
Maybe if I disappear, everyone else can move on.
That thought didn't feel dramatic.
It felt practical.
For the first time, he didn't wait for permission.
I've been following the map they drew for me my whole life. Every turn, every checkpoint, was theirs. But this road ends here, at the edge of my own wilderness I am dismantling your compass to build my own north from the pieces. There will be no more petitions for permission. The cost of their approval is the surrender and the price is finally too high. I am walking away from your podium. My own two feet are the only authority I recognize now.
Who gives another person the right to decide your life?
The question came to him often, usually late at night, usually unanswered.
He had always needed permission.
Not formally — no one had chained him, no one had threatened him outright — but psychologically, he had been hollow. He needed someone to look at his choices and say, Yes. That is acceptable. Without that approval, his thoughts spiraled. His chest tightened. His hands shook.
So he asked.
And asked.
And asked again.
Parents. Wife. Friends. Authority figures. Anyone who sounded confident.
When everything collapsed, he waited for rescue the same way he always had.
No one came.
His wife didn't just leave him.She replaced him.Friends he had known for years stopped calling. Some blocked him outright. Others sent awkward messages about "not wanting drama."
Later, he learned why.
She had spoken first.
She had cried first.
She had framed the story so cleanly that doubt itself felt immoral.
"He's unstable."
"He needs help."
"I was scared."
The same words echoed everywhere, as if rehearsed.His parents didn't defend him.
They didn't even pretend to be neutral.
"Why couldn't you just be normal?" his mother asked over the phone, exhaustion heavy in her voice — not grief, not concern, just annoyance.
His father didn't speak at all.Silence had always been his verdict.
He stopped going to work.At first, it was accidental — one day missed, then another. The thought of facing people who knew things, or worse, people who thought they knew things, made his stomach churn.
No one checked on him.Emails piled up. Calls went unanswered. Eventually, they stopped coming.His days lost structure.
He slept at odd hours. Ate when he remembered. Drank when sleep wouldn't come — which was often.The room grew messier, then unrecognizable. Bottles by the bed. Clothes on the floor. Curtains never opened.
Time blurred.Weeks passed like hours.
Hours passed like nothing.
Anger arrived late, but when it did, it stayed.It started as resentment — quiet, internal — then sharpened into something hotter.
He replayed arguments in his head, rewriting them. Saying the things he never said. Standing up for himself in conversations that had already ended.
He hated his wife for lying so convincingly.
He hated his parents for shaping him into someone who couldn't resist being shaped.
He hated his friends for choosing comfort over truth.
Most of all, he hated himself.Because beneath the rage was a thought he couldn't escape:They only had power because I gave it to them.
That realization broke something.
He had been wronged — yes.
Manipulated — undeniably.
But he had also handed over the steering wheel, then sat quietly while the car crashed.
Every decision deferred.
Every conflict avoided.
Every responsibility transferred.
He had mistaken obedience for virtue.
Silence for maturity.
Endurance for strength.
No one had forced his compliance.He had offered it freely.The thought didn't bring clarity.It brought madness.He paced the room, muttering arguments to empty air. Sometimes he laughed — short, sharp sounds that startled even him.
"What did you expect?" he asked no one.
"You wanted approval. This is what it costs."
Sleep became impossible. When it came, it was filled with fragments — faces looking down at him, voices speaking over him, hands pointing.The world narrowed to a single question, looping endlessly in his head:If I chose nothing, am I responsible for everything?
One night, clarity arrived — not calm, but sharp, obsessive clarity.If authority could destroy a life, then reclaiming authority meant destroying the version of himself that had surrendered it.
The thought frightened him.Then it comforted him.For the first time, the decision felt entirely his.
No parents advising.
No wife manipulating.
No society judging.
Just him.
Choice.
There was no note.
He wasn't trying to explain himself anymore.
Explanations were another form of permission.
As the room filled with a suffocating stillness, a single thought repeated — not dramatic, not heroic, just disturbingly sincere:If I cannot live as someone who chooses,
then I will not live at all.
And then —
Everything ended.