My husband controlled and ab:us:ed me every day. One day, I fainted. He rushed me to the hospital, putting on a perfect act: “She fell down the stairs.” But he didn’t expect the doctor to notice signs that only a trained eye could catch. He didn’t ask me anything — he looked straight at him and called security: “Lock the door. Call the police.”

seemed harmless. He liked her in blue instead of red, liked her hair down instead of tied back, liked quiet restaurants more than crowded bars, and somehow each suggestion arrived wrapped in such warmth that it felt rude to refuse.

Then the preferences hardened into rules. He began deciding which friends were “bad influences,” which coworkers were continue reading …