“Or maybe you think you can trick that guy in to swooping in? Saving you from your big bad husband? Gonna latch onto him and drain him for all he’s got too?”
My eyes burn and my chest aches. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“Nobody is gonna fuckin’ fall for that bullshit, Lyn. Nobody wants to be saddled with a bitch with kids and a used up, stretched-out pussy.” He trails his hand lightly down the side of my rigid body, resting gently on my hip. I grit my teeth and fight back the whimper. “No one is gonna want you, Lyn. Stop being a fuckin’ slut before you embarrass your kids and me.”
When the first tear slips through my closed eyes, Patrick scoffs, but he finally steps back, giving me space to breathe. He got what he wanted. I wrap my hands around my belly as more tears fall.
“Fucking pathetic, Lyn. Always so fucking pathetic.”
I don’t move, don’t even open my eyes, until I hear his truck drive away. Then silently, I let myself back into the house and lock the door behind me. I make my way into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, then slide down to the floor.
I broke for him. I always break for him.
Worse still, I shrink myself for him. I make myself smaller, so he can feel bigger. I know it happens, and I know it’s wrong, but I still do it. I always have. I’m so scared that I always will.
I was strong once. Long enough to leave him. Long enough to fight through a brutal divorce that drained my bank account, my energy, and what little self-confidence I had managed to fake. My strength was fueled by the pain of June’s accident, and I hate myself for it. I hate that it took something so terrible for me to finally find the courage to leave. I hate myself even more that I can’t sustain that courage.
I don’t know what else I can do. I’m trying. I’m trying so damn hard with everything I have, but what if it isn’t enough? What if he’s right? And what if this will always be my life? Him breathing down my neck and beating down my door whenever he wants to. Holding the ax of a custody battle over my head. Sharpening it with accusations and lies.
I wipe my tears away with my hands, though they don’t stop falling. Not until my wine glass is empty and my head is pounding, and I make my way to my bedroom just a few hours before dawn.