Only a few short years later, Eric had a measure of success and, yes, our life improved—but his temper swelled with it. In his eyes, I couldn’t do anything right.
Any tiny disappointment turned into a stream of insults.
His catchphrase became: “This family only exists because of my hard work. You’re nothing but a glorified nanny!”
He’d always apologize afterward and beg me to forgive him. I’d pretend nothing happened. He never understood: wounds don’t disappear; they only get covered up.
I sighed.
I steadied myself and smiled at Eric. “I’m sorry. I slipped up today. Give me another chance—I won’t make the same mistake.”
He doesn’t even eat eggs. He was just looking for an excuse to lash out. I figured something at work must have gone wrong again.
“What the hell is that attitude, huh?”
Eric wouldn’t let up. He hurled his plate to the floor with a screech.
I stared at his face, twisted by anger.
I stepped forward and swept the rest of the dishes off the table. “If you don’t want to eat, then don’t.”
Years as a full-time homemaker had turned me, in Eric’s eyes, into a live-in maid. The slightest thing set him off. After so long under pressure, I snapped too. He never saw the labor it took to hold this family together.
This home wasn’t built by Eric alone.
His expression darkened.
Then, to my shock, he lunged at me, shoved me to the floor, pinned me with his weight, and kicked and punched me.
My head rang.
It took a long moment to realize: I was being assaulted—by my own husband.
I fought back with everything I had.
He only hit harder.
I screamed.
My nephew ran over, sobbing. “Uncle Eric, please don’t hit Auntie! It’s my fault—I’ll leave right now. I won’t ever eat eggs again!”
Years ago, my older brother stepped in to protect me from a thug, struck too hard, and was sentenced to eight years. My sister-in-law ran off after that, leaving their boy with my parents.
I’ve always felt guilty toward my brother.
So I’ve tried to be as good as I can to my nephew, to make up for it—without crossing Eric’s lines and without changing the household budget.
In the past, when Eric was upset, he’d at least wait to close the door before venting at me.
I never imagined he’d do this in front of my nephew.
Eric shoved the boy aside. “Get lost. Since when do kids meddle in a husband and wife’s business? Son of a murderer—bad seed.”
The words stopped me cold.
My nephew hit the floor. He didn’t even cry.