It Wasn’t “A Bad Day.” It Was The Real Him
My name is Nancy.
I’m 43. I’m a mother. And for years, I’ve been an expert at making excuses for a man who never deserved them.
From the outside, Ethan looked respectable.
He knew how to smile in public.
He knew how to talk about “family values.”
He knew how to sound reasonable.
At home, he kept score.
- How much I “cost”
- How much I “owed”
- How much I was “allowed” to need
When I quit my job to raise our daughter Lily, he called it “our plan.”
Later, he called it my “lack of ambition.”
When he changed jobs, quit jobs, fought with bosses, he said it was bad luck.
But somehow the blame always landed on me.
“If you were better, life would be easier,” was his favorite line.
I didn’t see the trap clearly until the accident forced me into stillness.
Because in that hospital bed, I couldn’t move fast enough to manage his mood.
I couldn’t cook, clean, smooth, smile, or absorb.
I could only exist.
And apparently, that was the one thing he couldn’t tolerate.
When his fists hit me, I heard my own breath crack.
I tried to curl inward, to protect myself, to make myself smaller.
And then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Fast. Heavy. Coming toward the door.
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