by Densie Webb
She couldn’t point to a day marked in red on the calendar when everything had fallen apart. It had been a methodical, exquisitely painful dissection.
In the beginning, she was hopelessly—no—insanely in love with him. There he was, serving up his seductive behavior like a mouthwatering, 7-course meal. And she lacked the willpower to refuse. In the end, she had sacrificed her job, her friends, her savings, and her common sense just to eat at the same table with him.
It had taken her 15 tumultuous years to realize there was no beautifully sensitive man on the inside waiting to emerge, to embrace her and promise the security, warmth, and understanding she was certain was hibernating, just waiting to awaken from a deep slumber.
The warning signs were there all along, but she had always given allowances for the tears he triggered. Didn’t they always passionately make up once she apologized? When Adam was born, she had clung to the hope that being a father would change him into the caring man she so desperately longed for.
The fantasy was stubborn.
Still, it seemed sudden the day she realized she no longer anxiously awaited his return, her pulse quickening in anticipation of being with him again. Now her heart sank at the sound of his key in the door. Another evening of accusations, instructions, and lectures, followed by angry silences. They no longer talked about anything, except Adam, and even that led to outbursts targeting her inadequacies as a mother. She had learned over the years that her own silence was the best defense. And she had, little-by-little, day-by-day, retreated into herself.
It was a carton of milk that signaled the end.
Back from shopping with her allotted “grocery money” he had left for her on the kitchen counter, she opened the refrigerator to place the newly purchased milk inside. And there it was. A full, unopened carton. The damning evidence at her soon-to-be trial. He had, as usual, instructed her to check before buying another carton, and had again accused her of being wasteful—an unforgiveable fraction of his rules. Her stomach lurched. Should she pour it down the sink, throw away the empty container, bury the evidence at the bottom of the garbage to avoid the inevitable confrontation over her inability to follow his simple instructions?
The realization that she had disappeared under his overpowering influence washed over her and left her flailing, grabbing for solid ground. But she could feel traces of herself crawling back to shore, drenched and battered, but ready to start anew.
She clambered up the stairs to the attic and grabbed her dust-covered suitcase, then her purse, her cell. She would pick up Adam from school early, fill up the tank, go by the bank. As she passed the family photos in the hallway, she caught a replay of her life. The one in which her handsome Prince Charming had swooped in and rescued her. It had never been real.
She stopped on her way out to leave two empty milk cartons on the kitchen counter and tape her last words on the refrigerator.
I poured it all down the sink. I left milk money for you on the counter.
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