“I need you to understand something,” I said. “You don’t get to decide when you’re my husband and when you’re part of what I’m trying to get away from.”
His eyes filled, but he said nothing.
The neighbor helped me stand.
This time, I had my brace.
My ankle still hurt.
My clothes were still torn.
My body was still exhausted from the storm and the fear.
But I could stand.
Slowly, carefully, I made it to the neighbor’s car.
Before I got in, I turned back.
My husband’s mother was standing beneath the porch roof, watching me with an expression I could no longer read as authority. His sister stood beside her, silent. His brother remained near the SUV, staring at the ground.
My husband stood alone at the bottom of the steps.
He looked smaller than he had in the field.
Not because I had become stronger in some dramatic way.
