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And when we had the ultrasound and it became clear I was having a girl, Simon was even less interested.
Boys, it seemed, were all he cared about.
Heirs to his family name, or whatever antiquated bullshit he believed back then.
I chugged through that pregnancy, trying not to gain too much weight, or get too many marks, or complain, all the while trying not to be stressed, and trying to be happy. Because I felt more confident as a mother then, and I’d always wanted at least one of each.
“Simon didn’t come to the hospital for Hazel,” I told Seth. “I guess I didn’t even expect him to.”
Which shows you how bad things had gotten by that point.
But I had a new baby to take care of.
So that was what I focused on.
While trying to keep up the appearances of being a good “wife” to Simon. Cooking, cleaning, keeping myself as pretty as possible.
But I’d had two kids.
My body was different.
He made sure I knew about that.
“I guess Hazel was about a year old when the physical abuse finally started.”
It had been escalating for months.
Not just nit-picking, but verbal and emotional abuse.
I couldn’t go out without permission. I had no access to money. There was a tracker on my phone and the car I was sometimes permitted to use.
When I wasn’t, I left his multi-million-dollar home on foot with two babies to catch a bus to the pediatrician or grocery store.
I was trapped.
I knew it.
He knew it.
I couldn’t even see a way out.
Until the beatings started.
The first one was over something so incredibly stupid, too.
I’d forgotten to pick up his dry cleaning.
Because Isaac had an ear infection and Hazel was teething and miserable. It had been pure survival mode.
It was no excuse to Simon, though.
Who screamed at me while I held a crying Hazel, while Isaac hid behind the couch.
I guess I was just thankful that I had the foresight to put Hazel down. Because when the blow came, it was hard enough to send me flying and crashing to the floor.
What if I had come down on Hazel? Or sent her flying too?
I remember staying there on the ground, cradling my face, too in shock and pain to really think clearly.
I never thought I would be with someone who would put their hands on me. But there I was, bruised and sobbing on the floor as he continued to scream at me.
I’d been numb in the days following that, so disassociated that I couldn’t even tell you what I might have said to Isaac about what had happened, a boy who was old enough to know that hitting was always, always wrong.
He didn’t hit me again, not right away.
But within a year, the beatings were a weekly occurrence. And he was rough with me even when he wasn’t beating me. Knocking into me, pushing me out of his way, being way, way too vicious in bed.
In those days, I stopped trying to tell myself that I was just giving in to him, and admitted what was going on in our bed. Spousal rape. More abuse.
But I don’t think I even fully processed any of it while it was happening. I was just trying to get through the day, just trying to shield the kids from any of his anger.
Isaac grew into a quiet kid, someone who saw too much, who read into situations in a way no little boy should be forced to. And he also tried to help shield his sister, taking her with him when he sensed the tensions getting to a fever pitch inside the house.
So little with so much responsibility.
I felt like the worst mother for letting him be a part of it. But I couldn’t quite see a way out.
No money, no job, no way to go anywhere without Simon knowing about it.
It felt hopeless.
And then… another missed period, another positive pregnancy test. While on the Pill.
Prompting me to grab the pack, to look up the numbers on the Pill.
Aspirin all month, then a week of iron.
In the blister packs like the real Pill should have been.
I never did figure out how he got them. He’d dropped them off on my nightstand each month in a pharmacy package, so I’d never questioned the legitimacy of them. I guess I’d concluded that there was some evil, controlling man shadow market where you could buy shit like that. Tools to further trap your women with you.
“I was terrified,” I admitted to Seth.
Because, for the first time, I was pregnant with a man who put his hands on me. One who might not just hurt me, but hurt the baby.
At that point, I’d been sneaking little bits of money into the bottom of a baby bag. Twenty bucks skimmed from the food shopping money here, fifty from the household budget there.
