He was a showboy, a larger-than-life personality who loved to do everything in grand style. For my birthdays, he would throw elaborate parties, making sure everyone knew just how much he loved me. In everything he did, he liked to go big and show off—and I loved it. In every way that he loved me, he loved me with grandeur. Everything about him was great and loud: he gave loudly, loved loudly, and showcased it loudly.

When we got married, it was a celebration fit for royalty. It was nothing short of spectacular, the kind of wedding that people talk about for years. I still treasure that day, not just for what it meant but for how unforgettable it was. My friends envied us. Even my mother couldn’t help but comment, “My wedding was not as big as this,” she remarked with a tinge of jealousy as I packed my things to move into my new home.

But it was after the wedding, once the whirlwind of excitement had settled, that I began to see the other side of his greatness. His flaws, I realized, were just as loud as his strengths.

He would bring his friends over unannounced and expect me to cook and serve them without hesitation. It was exhausting, and when I tried to express how tired I was, he’d brush it off, calling me lazy. “You can’t even do this small thing?” he’d say, his tone dismissive. Some nights, I would spend hours in the kitchen preparing meals, only for him to walk in with food his sister or mother had made.

“I don’t enjoy your cooking. You should learn from my sister,” he’d say bluntly. If I made rice, he’d complain it was too hard, but when his sister made it, he’d rave, “This is the best rice I’ve had in days!” Those words cut deep. On the outside, it looked like he was spoiling me, giving me a life most women dreamed of. But only I knew the truth—how draining it was to constantly be compared and criticized.

He could do whatever he pleased. Hanging out with his friends? No problem. Bringing them over at odd hours? Perfectly fine. But when it came to me—if I so much as stepped out with my own friends, it was an issue. “Why are you always out? What kind of wife does that?” he’d snap, turning a simple outing into a war. My social life withered, shrinking into near nonexistence, while his flourished.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my husband. I truly do, and I want this marriage to work. But loving him is not always easy. Being married to a man who insists on having everything his way is exhausting. What makes it harder is that he only listens to his mother. My opinions, my desires, my voice—they carry no weight in this house.

I’ve come to accept that when I married this man, I also married his mother, his sister, and all his friends. It’s a package deal, and I’m on board for the ride. I just hope it’s a good one.

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To anyone out there who’s still single, choose your partner wisely. Everyone has flaws—just make sure theirs are something you can handle, because love alone isn’t always enough.