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My Martyrdom Was His Final Sermon
My husband, Ethan, personally sculpted me into the perfect saint. On television, I was the First Lady of his evangelical empire: elegant, devout, my gaze forever fixed on him in worshipful admiration. In private, I was the sinner in his eyes—a stain that required constant purification. It all began seven years ago, on our wedding night. He believed a lie. He decided I was “unclean” and, with his trusted pastor, subjected me to a humiliating, night-long “exorcism.” For seven years, he basked in the glow I brought to his family’s image while carrying out an endless spiritual execution against me. I wasn’t allowed my own emotions. I wasn’t allowed to refute a single accusation. If he wanted me to cry, I had to produce the most compassionate tears for a charity livestream. If he wanted me to smile, I had to offer the most forgiving smile to the very people who had slandered me. In the end, I became exactly what he wanted: a perfect puppet, hollowed of its s......