NONFICTION
My Abusive Marriage Haunts My Parenting
It’s not easy to shake off the past
“Just leave her here. What’s the problem?” He asked as he took another swig of his beer.
My eyes darted across my husband’s face, taking in the bloodshot eyes and his drooping eyelids as he lowered the bottle of Budweiser. His free hand trembled at his side and he propped himself against the door frame.
I chewed on my bottom lip as I wrestled socks onto my seven-month-old baby’s feet. She lay on the changing mat, smiling and cooing up at me.
“I’m happy to take her,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Why? It’s difficult to take her grocery shopping,” he replied, crinkling his nose.
Forcing my face to remain expressionless, I said, “It’s not difficult at all. She likes to see all the lights and people.”
He scoffed and I kicked myself for complaining in the past about juggling a baby and a week’s worth of groceries.
“Why do you always have to be in control?” He asked, swallowing another mouthful of beer.
I picked my daughter up and held her to my chest as I quietly said, “You’ve been drinking.”
