I used to nag him constantly, and he would drink. I’d tell him, «You’re drinking way too often lately.»

And then, all of a sudden, he quit. Just like that—unexpectedly. So what am I supposed to do with all my critical remarks now?

Ladies, when you drag your husbands to addiction specialists, stop and ask yourselves: are *you* actually ready for the outcome? It turns out I wasn't. He quit drinking, and *I* ended up having to go to a psychotherapist and start taking antidepressants.

He’s become this picture-perfect guy: he never stays late at work, he goes to the gym, and in the evenings, he takes me out for drives to watch the sunset. I simply wasn't mentally prepared for that. What happened to the need for control? What about peering out the window to see where he is and what he’s up to? Where are his apologies? Where did his guilt go—and his drive to make amends for it?

The worst part is, he’s become self-sufficient, and now I feel completely useless.

And to top it all off, the bastard actually does all the chores around the house now.

I just don't understand what finally pushed him to quit drinking. What did *I* do wrong? It’s like he’s a completely different person. Every morning he showers, shaves… it’s sickening to watch.

In the evenings, he’s always fixing something around the house. Everything in our home is absolutely perfect now—it makes me want to puke. Before, I could stay out for days on end without coming home; now there’s constant scrutiny: «Where were you? Where are you coming from?»

That smug, sober face of his. I almost wish he’d just breathe some stale booze fumes in my direction.

And to think I put up with it for years.

It’s exhausting living under this kind of tension. You see, it’s one thing when he’s lying on the couch doing absolutely nothing—in that scenario, I get to be the poor, suffering victim who has to shoulder the entire burden alone.

But it’s a completely different story when he’s there every day with a hammer, pliers, or a screwdriver in his hand. Then where does that leave *me*?

He’s the picture of perfection—so, by comparison, who does *that* make *me*?

And just recently, he completely floored me: he announced he’s going to build a house with his own two hands. Now, that sounds like a good thing, right? But here’s the catch: what if he actually pulls it off? It is a different matter entirely when a house is built through my own tears, blood, and sweat—when every single plank is laid down through my own suffering.

And there I was, actually trying to coax him: «Go on, have a drink—you’ll turn into a little goat!» He dug his heels in, claiming it was bad for him and all that. Well, yesterday he finally had a drink; now he’s about to wake up—oh, am I going to give him a piece of my mind! Oh, here he comes… he’s here. I hate him—my very own man. But somehow, I feel lighter.