Inside the store, I asked the dependent to let me use the phone.
“The pay phone is in the background,” he said without looking away from the TV.
“I have no money. My husband left with my belongings.”
“They usually come back. Wait outside.”
The pay phone was damaged and it was no longer working. I went back to the sidewalk and sat on the narrow swath of shadow next to the building.
That’s when I finally realized that the incident was not an isolated joke. It was the last cruelty in a pattern that I had pretended to ignore for years.
Kyle and his brothers hid my car keys before an important interview, causing me to lose it. They placed a very realistic eviction notice on the door of our apartment and saw me pack through tears before admitting it was fake. They made me terrifying phone calls, ruined my clothes and recorded my reactions whenever they could.
Every time I got angry, Kyle told me to cultivate a sense of humor. His brothers called me difficult, and his mother said that I should be grateful to belong to such a cheerful family.
Sitting in the desert, I admitted the truth.
I hated how I was treated.
