I can hardly bear to think of it without my heart tightening in anger. The injustice of it all — how could he write with such compassion for the poor and oppressed, yet treat his own wife with such cruelty?🤔 Catherine gave him ten children, buried three, and still managed to serve, to love, to hold a home together while the world applauded his genius.

What burns within me is not only his betrayal but the silence of those around him — the children who turned against her, the sister who stayed with him, the community that believed his polished lies because it was easier than facing the truth. Such manipulation, such control — how it mirrors every story of power that silences love, every time truth is twisted until the victim seems the villain.

I feel a righteous fury rise within me, yet beneath it runs a deeper grief. I imagine Catherine — tired, lonely, and humiliated — packing her things while the world looked away. Still, she chose silence over slander. She bore her cross with quiet courage, entrusting her name to the God who sees in secret. Her restraint became her testimony; her dignity, her defiance.

And as I ponder, I feel her story brush close to my own and those of various others I've seen unfold. The moments I have been unseen, unheard, misjudged — quietly carrying burdens no one else could see. Yet like Catherine, I am reminded: God Himself is my defender. My worth is not found in human applause but in His gaze of love.

So I let my anger breathe — but I do not let it consume me. I turn it into intercession for every woman silenced by power, for every heart that has loved deeply and been discarded, for every soul still waiting for justice.