I thought I was the problem until I saw my son on the floor

I used to believe I was the problem. I thought I was failing, that every mistake was my fault. I felt like a fake plant in my own home—green on the outside, but dead inside. I did not know if I had the right to sleep. I did not know what I liked to eat. I just knew that if I did not do exactly what he wanted, the world would end.

My husband and I met on the internet in France. He was Israeli, and I was French. We built a life that looked perfect from the outside. We had six children. We moved to Israel, and I performed Tshuva, a spiritual return, trying to be the perfect wife and mother. For the first few years, it seemed manageable. But the moment our children started speaking Hebrew and entered school, the violence escalated.

I realized I had to save my children even if it meant destroying the family I had dreamed of. I stopped being a servant and started living for real.

It started with small things that I tried to explain away. He demanded I look only at him. He ignored me completely after the first children were born. He hid messages from other women and deleted them when I asked. But the turning point was not a conversation; it was a scene.

I remember the day he threw our son against a wall. I remember the day he forced our child to repeat, "I am nothing." I remember the day he locked the children outside during Shabbat as punishment, while he slept in the hallway. I took a photo of my son sleeping on the cold floor, his eyes tearing my heart out. He threatened to feed a child only bread and water. He pulled a child by the ear. He threw water on the floor and demanded I clean it up while he watched.

He used our religion to control us. He forced us to go to the synagogue at 4:30 AM. He threatened to find a non-Jew to light the lights on Shabbat because I refused to do it. He demanded perfect order in the house before guests left. When I tried to light the lights myself, he accused me of stealing. He told our children that their mother was a thief. He blocked my bank card without my consent and accused me of stealing money he had hidden in a closet.

I felt like a servant. I felt like I ceased to exist. I internalized his voice in my head. I feared social services would take my children away. I feared he would kill me. I feared he would get a weapon. I even feared my children would tell him I was leaving.

The breaking point came when I found a bundle of hidden money in a closet. I realized I had to save my children, even if it meant the family failed. I decided to leave. But leaving was not instant. I waited a month. I opened a private bank account. I transferred money to my mother. I hid food in the fridge for the children. I kept two phones with me. I kept gas in the car.

One Sunday morning, I called social services. I felt unable to cry at home. I hid in my room with my son who has autism. I refused to find a non-Jew. I refused to light the lights. I recorded conversations on my phone. I disconnected the cameras to retrieve my children.

When I finally left, my husband's sister threatened to follow me and kill me. The police arrived after I called them. They took us to the station, and then to a shelter. I gave my phone to the authorities for safety. I stayed in the shelter for over ten months. I felt disconnected from my body. I felt overwhelmed by the noise and smells. I cried during a blessing at the shelter. I realized that children have rights.

I left everything behind. I had a 240-square-meter apartment, a car, and cleaning staff. Now, I work as a cleaner to pay for my children's needs. I buy six toy cars for my son. I pay for their chocolate and yogurt habits. My husband refuses to give them the cars. The children changed schools for five months while in refuge. They made friends after being in the same school. They visit their father at a specialized center.

I still fear men in hospital waiting areas. I am unsure if I will see tomorrow. I am unsure how to say things in proper French. I worry about my children becoming like their father. But I know one thing for sure: I have the right to exist. I have the right to be happy. I believe it is possible to get out of this situation.

I share my story so other women know they are not alone. I believe it is possible to recover. I believe everyone has the right to be happy. I stopped being a servant. I started living for real.