Exit, Husband Left

I loved him. Once. Until the shouting turned to pushing, the pushing turned to fists, and the fists turned into a daily weather forecast: bruised skies with a high chance of regret. At first, I got good at makeup, mastering the art of concealing pain. But no amount of concealer could hide the truth—Eric was a violent man. And as it turned out, violence ran in the Preece family like bad genetics. His entire family was in on it, enabling him like a pack of medieval henchmen.

But again, men are stupid.

I had dated a few before Eric, and the more I observed, the more I realized the staggering levels of audacity men carried. They genuinely believed they could abuse women and suffer no repercussions. And so, before I knew it, I became Mrs. Preece, sealed into a gilded cage people mistook for a fairytale. From the outside, I was the picture-perfect wife—elegant, doting, lucky. When I visited his office, I saw the envious glances from women who thought I had it all. If only they knew.

Eric was the kind of man who believed a wife’s role was a hybrid between a personal assistant, a chef, and a 24/7 on-call punching bag. He convinced me to quit my job, which, in hindsight, was just another tactic to make sure I had nowhere to run. I told no one. When I finally broke down and told my parents, they asked, “What did you do to make him so angry?”

Excuse me? The fuck?

I didn’t even tell them the number of times he had beaten me into miscarriages, only to later mumble some pathetic apology about “trying again.” Each time we went to the hospital, he told the doctors I had fallen—tripping over stairs, rugs, my own two feet. Apparently, I had the balance of a newborn giraffe.

And then came the day everything changed.

That morning, I had done everything expected of me. The house was clean, his clothes were ironed, his lunch was packed. But Eric, being Eric, needed a reason to remind me he was in control. His fists became a storm, and this time, the hospital trip ended with an emergency hysterectomy. He stole the very thing that made motherhood possible for me, and still, I stayed.

For a week.

Seven days after surgery, while stitches still held my insides together, he struck me again. I remember lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and thinking: How stupid can a man be? You rob me of my womb, and then you have the nerve to come home, sit at my table, and eat my food?

Was he not afraid? Did he think I wouldn’t retaliate? Did he think women were naturally incapable of vengeance?

Oh, Eric, you absolute fool.

That was the moment I decided: Eric had to go. But see, I wasn’t just going to end him—I was going to do it so well that the world would weep for him. Six months I took researching, experimentations, and a deep dive into the fascinating world of botany, carefully plotting. I learned his routines, studied his habits, perfected my act. Did you know there’s a plant called Aconitum napellus, also known as wolfsbane? It’s a beautiful flower, really. Purple, delicate, and—fun fact—deadly in the right dosage. It causes cardiac arrest, but here’s the kicker: it’s virtually undetectable in an autopsy.

So, I grew it in my garden. Right next to the tomatoes. Eric never noticed. Why would he? Men don’t notice things like that. They’re too busy thinking they’re invincible.

The night it happened, I made his favourite meal: shepherd’s pie. I seasoned it with love, a pinch of salt, and just the right amount of wolfsbane. He ate every bite, complimented my cooking, and then—well, let’s just say he didn’t wake up the next morning.

How tragic, unforeseen death. The doctors called it a tragic heart attack. I called it karma.

Oh goodness, poetic justice is a beautiful thing indeed.

And now, here I sit, at my husband’s funeral.

You should see his mother—wailing like she lost a saint instead of the devil’s understudy.  His brother is giving a eulogy about what a “stand-up guy” he was, and I’m sitting here, sipping tea and trying not to laugh. The audacity.

Meanwhile, I sit in perfect peace, dabbing at my dry eyes with a tissue, making sure my “grief” is visible. I even manage a few tears—years of anguish finally leaving my system.

Because here’s the thing about men: they’re not invincible. They’re not above consequences. And they’re certainly not above a well-planned pie…

Men truly are insane. But at least one less walk among us now, so rest in peace, Eric. Or don’t. I really don’t care