Also, thanks to him, Idespisesex. Having to do it with him is more than enough for me.
Dawson comes up to us with a bag of Goldfish. He hands it to me. “Mommy, snack.”
“Not right now, baby. We’re having dinner soon.”
Matt doesn’t release me. Dawson, blissfully oblivious to the tight tension between his parents, runs off to keep playing in the living room. Our house is open concept, so the kitchen is in the same room. The quartz island separates the two rooms.
I’m growing more desperate the longer he holds me here. His threats of violence are usually just that—threats he doesn’t follow through with.
But what if? What if, one day, he gets tired of only making threats?
“Let me prove it to you. You’re the only one for me. I can make you feel good right now.”
He shakes his head, but I can see the spark of interest in his eyes. Sex is usually my last-ditch effort to calm him down. It’s the only tried-and-true method I’ve found to get him to stop when he’s on a tirade like this before things start shattering against the walls.
He lets go of my wrist, reaching for the plate of hot spaghetti on the counter I just served for him. I hold my breath as he picks it up.
I watch in frozen terror as he launches it through the air, my body jolting when it sails past my head and smashes into the refrigerator. Blood-red sauce splatters like a bomb going off. I flinch away from him and numbly walk toward our bedroom. I’m prepared to use myself as a human shield to protect my babies if I need to, but leading him away from them seems like a better move right now.
He follows me, stopping me before I get too far and pressing me up against the back door. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
A numbness spreads through my limbs until I can no longer feel anything, not even the terror.
My voice drops to a husky whisper, the sound of desperation and survival instincts. “I told you, I want to make you feel good.”
PRESENT DAY
When the boys go back to their dad’s, I take the free time and clean the apartment from top to bottom. It doesn’t take me long at all since it’s so tiny. Once I finish scrubbing the old tub in the bathroom and water all my herbs on the windowsill over the sink, I sit down with my laptop at the table. I have my third therapy session with my counselor, and once it’s over, I’m rewarding myself with a glass of wine and binge-watching my favorite show,The Office.
I’ve always loved plants, but ever since becoming a mom, I tend to forget to water them. Now, I have more time to spend pruning and caring for them than I ever did when I was married.
The orbiting circle on the laptop screen finally flashes to life, revealing the face of my therapist, Dr. Stone.
His full head of white hair is styled nicely, and his gingham shirt is buttoned all the way to his throat.
“Hello, Dallas. How are you doing today?”
I roll my pen back and forth between my fingers. “I’m doing okay. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m glad you’re taking the time to see me.”
Therapy is brutal. I struggle to force myself to do it, but I know I need it after what I’ve been through. I was very hesitant to start seeing a male therapist, but I’m warming up tohim every session. His eyes are kind. They don’t feel lifeless and evil.
“I, um … I just cleaned my house. The boys aren’t here, and keeping busy helps to distract me.”
He nods, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, I’m sure it does. That sounds like a constructive use of your time.”
I gnaw on my lower lip, debating how much I want to share with him today. He told me at our first session that he would leave the pacing up to me. My parents offered to pay for the therapy, thankfully, because I would never be able to afford it on my own. After I told them only some of the mildest cruel things Matt had done to me, they strongly encouraged me to get counseling, clearly at a loss for how else to help me.
“I know you’re feeling nervous to open up, and that’s normal. I’m a stranger, and you’ve been through a lot. I’m only here to help with whatever it isyouwant to talk about today.”
I lick my lips, running a finger over the metal spiral of my notebook.
“I’m worried about my boys. I constantly—I spend a lot of time worrying. I know when he gets angry, he …” My voice trails off.
“Are you talking about Mike? What’s his name, your ex-husband?”
“Matt.”
