I truly believed that the first six months of our marriage were peaceful and safe. I thought I knew the man I was sleeping next to every night. I thought he would never do anything to hurt me. But one early morning was enough to destroy every illusion I had about our relationship.

It happened exactly at six in the morning. We were staying at his mother’s house in a small village — an old building with creaking floors, thin walls and a narrow, uncomfortable bed. I was still half asleep when I felt a strong, abrupt shove. Before I even understood what was happening, I hit the cold floor with a painful thud.

My husband looked down at me with an expression that was almost too innocent.

— “Why did you fall?”

I tried to convince myself that it was an accident. Not enough space, a wrong movement, fatigue… I didn’t want to start a scene in his mother’s home. Still, something inside me whispered that this wasn’t normal.

The next morning, it happened again.

Same time. Same sudden force. Same fall onto the hard floor. Only this time I knew — it wasn’t a mistake. He had pushed me. Deliberately.

I barely slept for the rest of the night. I stayed awake, afraid to even close my eyes. And I decided that once we returned home, I would demand an explanation. And if he didn’t give me a real one — I would file for divorce.

When we finally got back to our apartment, I sat him down at the kitchen table. His hands were shaking slightly, and he wouldn’t look at me. I could see the fear spreading across his face. He knew he’d have to tell me something I wouldn’t want to hear.

And then he confessed.

— “My mom said you slept on the wrong side of the bed. She said that’s the man’s side, and if the woman sleeps there, it brings bad luck to the house. She told me… to push you a little, so you’d remember.”

For several seconds, I simply stared at him. I couldn’t even form a sentence. I thought it had to be some twisted joke. But he was serious. Dead serious. As if some old superstition mattered more than my safety.

— “Do you understand you could have seriously injured me?” I finally asked.

He didn’t answer. And that silence cut deeper than any words could. Because it meant he knew. He absolutely knew. And yet he still chose to do it. Not out of anger, not out of frustration — but because his mother said so.

That was the moment something inside me broke. I realized that the man sitting in front of me wasn’t a true partner. He was a grown man who obeyed superstitions and his mother’s irrational instructions instead of protecting his own wife.

That evening, I began packing my things.

He tried to explain, to apologize, to insist it was a “family tradition,” a harmless belief. But nothing he said mattered anymore. If he couldn’t set boundaries in six months, he wouldn’t learn to do it in six years. And if he was capable of pushing me onto the floor over some ridiculous belief, what else could happen later?

Now I’m preparing to file for divorce. And you know what’s strangest of all? Ever since I left, I’ve slept peacefully. No fear. No sudden awakenings. No falling. No superstitions hanging over my head. And most importantly — no man willing to endanger me just to please someone else.

Maybe that 6 a.m. fall wasn’t just a physical shove. Maybe it was the wake-up call I desperately needed — the moment I finally opened my eyes to reality.