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I blacked out for a moment at his words. Pure, naked panic blinded me with the certainty and confidence at his words. Like Nathan and I were something he could just take. Own.
Hurt.
It was the thought of him laying a hand on my beautiful, kind, and special son that had me lucid.
“Never,” I hissed, eyeing him, my eyes watering. “Never will you get back something that you threw away in the first place. With your violence. With your vile words. We were never yours. And we never will be again.”
That fury came back as a muscle in his jaw ticked. Then he smiled, slowly as if he were realizing something.
Then he strode calmly over to me.
I stood my ground. I didn’t flinch this time.
And this time he did hit me.
Hard.
I tumbled back into the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and the living room.
White pain scored over my pain and my stomach lurched with the intensity. The memory of pain is a funny thing. Like childbirth, at the time it is so excruciating you’re sure it’ll be seared in your memory, into your bones, something you’ll never forget. Something that will ensure you never do anything as stupid as deciding to grow human life ever again.
But pain fades. Even the worst kind. Especially when the worst kind is replaced by the most beautiful miracle in the world.
Even when it isn’t replaced with anything, it fades away. Your body doesn’t let you hold onto it. Not when you’re moving on.
So I was shocked with the pain at being punched in the face. Even though it had happened many times before, I’d become used to it years ago, it felt like it was the first time. And maybe it was. Because I wasn’t the same woman who used to be a punching bag.
I was a new woman.
But the same man was battering me.
Boots filled my blurred and tear-filled vision and more white pain exploded in my scalp as he grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head up to meet his eyes.
When I’d lived with him, I’d kept it short for this precise reason, less of it for him to yank. Now I was safe, I grew it long, past my bra strap. I liked it long. I liked to do all sorts of different styles, curl, straighten, braid. But I liked my thick, natural waves falling down my back too.
Now, I hated them.
“You don’t talk to me like that, trailer trash,” he whispered. “You’ve got some things to learn. To remember.”
The promise was rancid in the air, and I almost vomited from the reality behind it. My worst fears come to life.
He continued to stare at me with a cruel and evil version of my son’s eyes, taunting me with the power he thought he was entitled to over me.
My cheek was hot, the skin already tight and stretching from the swelling.
I was aware that Nathan could be coming home any minute. Coming home to see his mother on the floor with a black eye and the father he didn’t recognize holding her by the hair.
A memory I promised myself he would never have.
A trauma that would never touch him.
I had to get him out of here.
I had to fight.
Right when I was about to, Robert let me go, I fell onto my hands.
My wrists buckled with the impact.
Robert didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to, violence always spoke louder than words. He just turned and walked out.
I’d lain on the floor for exactly five seconds.
That’s all I let myself have.
Five seconds of pity. Fear. Tears.
Because five seconds was all I could spare.
Then I got up.
I tended to my face the best I could.
Looked up a reputable family lawyer.
Called to make an appointment for Friday, wincing at the initial cost.
Then I took a photo of my bruised face. I knew I needed it. The evidence. If it would come to that. I prayed it wouldn’t. I really prayed that Robert had come here today to see if he could still control me, to see if I’d immediately go running back to him. And that I’d never see him again.
But I couldn’t bet my life, my son’s life on a prayer.
So I prepared to fight.
I considered running too.
It was an option. A tempting one. The smartest one.
But I had a home here. I had friends. A job that wasn’t great, but bosses and co-workers that were. Nathan had just started school. Making friends. I was friends with a couple of moms who helped with the school run, playdates, and birthday parties.
I wouldn’t run.
When Nathan came home, the bruise on my face was only beginning to form, and he was on a high from all the fun he had, so somehow I managed to get him in the bath and into bed without noticing.
