John loved to talk about other women. Constantly. His exes, his friends' wives, strangers at the store—every woman was a topic, a comparison, a fantasy. But it wasn't just that he noticed them. It was the way he weaponized them.
Kelly had amazing tits, apparently. I didn't. Mine were "too small," "flat," "barely there." I wasn't the "hot one," just the placeholder. He loved to make little comments, little barbs disguised as jokes, like he was giving me helpful advice.
"You know, you'd be so much sexier if you just had bigger boobs," he'd say, his voice almost thoughtful, like he was doing me a favor. "But I guess it's fine. Not everyone can be perfect."
At first, I laughed. I told myself it was just his sense of humor, that I was being too sensitive. But then I found myself staring in the mirror, pulling at my shirt, trying to imagine what I'd look like if I were just… more.
But it didn't stop with me. It was everyone. Any woman who crossed his path, anyone who caught his eye. And always with comparisons. Kelly wasn't just pretty— she was "hotter than you." His friends' wives weren't just nice— they were "better moms than you'll ever be." Even strangers at the store became weapons.
"Did you see her? She was gorgeous. God, why don't you ever dress like that?"
And it didn't matter what I did. If I wore makeup, I was "trying too hard." If I didn't, I was "lazy." If I tried to dress up, I was "seeking attention." If I didn't, I was "letting myself go."
His words didn't just hurt. They hollowed me out. Because they were always wrapped in this thin, sickly sweet layer of concern. Like he was helping me. Like I was just one flaw away from being perfect, and he was doing me the favor of pointing it out.
And then came the women he actually knew. His exes. Every story became a twisted fable. His ex-girlfriend was "the best he ever had," his ex-fiancée was "the love of his life." The one who cheated on him, who betrayed him, who he never really got over.
"You're great, babe," he'd tell me, his arm around me, his voice soft, almost loving. "But she… I don't know. I don't think I'll ever love someone like that again."
A knife, twisted in the chest. But I didn't say anything. I didn't know how. I just tried harder. Tried to be prettier, sexier, more fun, less needy. I tried to be everything he wanted, everything he kept telling me I wasn't.
But it got worse.
Because it wasn't just other women. It was my family.
My sisters.
He talked about them the same way he talked about every other woman. Except it was worse, because they were mine. Because they were supposed to be safe. Because I loved them.
At first, it was subtle. Comments about how pretty they were, how lucky I was to come from such a "good gene pool." Compliments that were meant to sound sweet but felt wrong— like a hand resting on your thigh that lingers too long.
But it didn't stop there.
He started comparing me to them. "Jane's got such a cute figure. You should try wearing tighter clothes like her." Or, "Marie's so confident. Why can't you be more outgoing?"
And then came the photos. Pictures he'd taken at family events, photos from holidays, from Facebook. He'd show them to his friends. Not just as part of family stories— no, he was bragging.
"My wife has three sisters," he'd say, grinning, flipping through the photos. "And her mom's still got it too. Total MILF."
"That's Marie. Married. Shame, really. She's got a great body."
"That's Jane. Single, sweet, only fifteen. Legal soon."
And I didn't stop him. I didn't scream. I didn't snatch the phone away. I just stood there, frozen, numb, smiling like this was normal. Like I wasn't standing next to a man who was reducing my family to a catalog of "hot or not."
But even then, I told myself it was just his sense of humor. I told myself it didn't mean anything. I told myself I was overreacting.
Because what else could I do? Fight back? Tell him to stop? I couldn't even keep him happy. I couldn't even keep him interested. I was always just a step away from being replaced. And he made sure I knew it.
"I could do so much better than you," he'd whisper, his voice like a knife against my ear. "You know that, right? But I'm with you. Because I love you. Because I'm trying to make you better."
And I believed him. Because his words were poison, seeping into my thoughts, turning them against me. Because every time he talked about another woman— about her body, her smile, her confidence. It wasn't just about her. It was about me.
It was about reminding me that I wasn't good enough.
That I was always one mistake away from being replaced.
Until his gaze slipped to Lynn. Until he looked at her the way he looked at every other woman. Except she wasn't a woman. She was a child.
Lynn was the baby of the family, sweet and silly and not even a teenager. The kind of kid who still thought her stuffed animals had feelings, who danced in the living room just because she liked the way her dress twirled.
"She's gonna be a knockout when she's older," John whispered one night, his eyes fixed on a photo of Lynn. His voice was low, almost thoughtful. "I bet she's gonna break some hearts."
My stomach twisted. A sick, cold weight settled in my chest. I laughed it off, pretended it was nothing, But the way his eyes lingered, the way his voice slipped into that low, hungry whisper. It wasn't a joke. I just told myself it was, because the truth was too ugly to hold.
I should have run. I should have screamed. I should have grabbed his phone, smashed it, and told him to get the hell out of my life.
But I didn't. I didn't know how. I didn't know I could. I was already so tangled in his words, so twisted up in his manipulation, that I didn't even recognize it for what it was.
A predator. Hiding behind a smile.