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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