My Husband Constantly Mocked Me for Doing Nothing, Then He Found My Note After the ER Took Me Away

I even managed to make banana pancakes that morning, hoping maybe Tyler would smile for once.

When he stomped into the kitchen half-awake, I forced a cheerful “Morning, honey.” The boys echoed me in unison with their bright, “Good morning, Daddy!”

Tyler did not respond. He looked straight past us, grabbed a piece of dry toast, and walked back to the bedroom, muttering something about a big meeting. I recalled that he was busy preparing for an important meeting and presentation at work that day. So he was not only getting ready for that, but he was physically changing into his work clothes.

I mentally kicked myself for thinking maybe the pancakes would help or the boys’ enthusiasm would lighten his mood. I realized I was wrong.

“Madison, where’s my white shirt?” he barked from the bedroom, his voice slicing through the hallway like a blade.

I wiped my hands and walked in. “I just put it in the wash with all the whites.”

He turned to me, eyes wide in disbelief. “What do you mean you just put it in the wash? I asked you to wash it three days ago! You know that’s my lucky shirt! And I have that major meeting today. You can’t even handle one task?”

The beast was out. It was now storming into the dining room, and I followed.

“I forgot, I’m sorry. I’ve been feeling really off lately.”

He did not hear me, or he chose not to.

“What do you even do all day, Madison?! Sit around while I pay for this house? Seriously, Mads. One job. One shirt. You eat my food, spend my money, and you can’t even do this?! You’re a leech!”

I stood frozen. My hands started shaking, but I said nothing. What could I say that would not make it worse?

“And that friend of yours downstairs—Kelsey, or whatever—you spend all day gabbing with her about God knows what! Blah, blah, blah! But nothing to show for it at home!”

“Tyler, please…” I whispered. A sudden wave of nausea washed over me, followed by a stabbing pain in my abdomen. I reached out for the wall to steady myself. A metallic taste rose in my mouth, the room spinning faintly as though the walls were tilting away from me.

He scoffed, threw on a different shirt, and slammed the door behind him as he left. The echo of his departure lingered in the silence, sharp as the ache still twisting inside me.

By noon, I could barely stand. Each step felt like walking through water, heavy and slow, as though my body no longer belonged to me.

My vision blurred, and the pain had become unbearable. The tiles seemed to tilt beneath me, a dizzying swell of white light pressing at the edges of my vision. I collapsed in the kitchen just as the boys were finishing lunch.

I remember hearing them scream. The younger one, Noah, started crying. His small, trembling voice cut through the haze, piercing me with a guilt I was too weak to bear.

My oldest, Ethan, who was only seven, ran out of the apartment.

I could not stop him or even speak. I barely remember the sirens or what happened next.

Later, I learned that Ethan ran downstairs to get Kelsey, our neighbor and my closest friend. She came running up, took one look at me, and called 911.

According to Kelsey, my lifesaver, when the paramedics arrived, the boys were huddled in the hallway, clinging to her. I was drifting in and out of consciousness by then. I remember someone asking about medications, someone else strapping something around my arm, and Kelsey’s voice saying, “Please take care of her.”

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