The language was never given to you
You knew something was wrong before you had a word for it. You felt it in the way he could empty a room with his mood. In the way an argument would end not with resolution but with his silence, which lasted exactly long enough to make you apologize for something you were not wrong about. You learned to read his silences the way you read weather. You planned your sentences around his reactions. And when you tried to explain this to your mother, or your best friend, or even yourself, the sentence kept collapsing. Because what was there to say? He didn't hit you. He didn't drink. He provided. He was, by every visible measure, a good husband.
