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Too silent, perhaps. I crossed the hallway of our small house in a suburb near Columbus, Ohio, closed my bedroom door as quietly as possible, as if I didn’t want to wake a sleeping child, and lay down on my side of the bed, still dressed.
Beside me, the bedside lamp cast a soft halo of light on a framed wedding photo, my reading glasses, and a book I’d belatedly returned to the library. The house was quiet.
The heating kicked on with a familiar whir, blowing warm air through the vents as if nothing had happened. Outside, a dog barked and a car door slammed shut. Ordinary noises, on a night that had changed everything.
My cheek burned where his hand had struck me. It wasn’t the first time, nor the most violent.
That was the most terrifying thing. It had become something that “sometimes happened” in our house, like a dripping faucet or a door that gets stuck in the summer dampness.
Α shove here, a tug there, a slap when his anger overcame his judgment and his apologies were slow in coming.
Αt first, those apologies sounded like promises. “It won’t happen again.” “I lost my temper.” “You know I love you.” Over time, they became more like explanations. “You drive me crazy.”
