It started as a small thing.
My husband always wore long sleeves. Even in the summer. Even during our beach trips. Even when he was sweating through his clothes.
I thought it was just his style. Or maybe a habit from his old job. So I never pushed him on it.
Until one night changed everything.
We were out for dinner with friends. A fancy restaurant. Candles, wine, laughter — and then came the moment that made my world stop.
As he reached for his glass of water, his sleeve rode up slightly.
There it was.
Scars.
Fresh ones.
Some old.
Some still healing.
I stared at them. Then at him.
He noticed my expression — and pulled his sleeve down fast.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said quickly.
“I had a rough year.”
That’s when I realized this wasn’t just fashion.
So I asked again later that night — gently, not accusingly.
“What are you hiding?”
He hesitated. Then whispered, “I can’t tell you.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
But I did try to understand.
After weeks of quiet tension, I finally convinced him to see a therapist.
And what we learned together?
He had been self-harming since before we got married.
Not because I did anything wrong.
Because something inside him broke long before I met him.
He told me about his past — growing up in a home full of pressure. About how failure meant punishment. About how love felt conditional.
And how cutting became the only way he knew how to feel something.
I held him. I cried. We talked for hours.
Then I made a decision no wife should ever have to make.
I stayed.
Because sometimes, love doesn’t end with scars.
Sometimes, it grows stronger when you learn where they came from.
And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is stand beside someone while they heal — even if it takes time.