One afternoon less than a year into our marriage, I returned to our apartment to find my then-husband waiting impatiently for me in the living room. He didn’t waste a moment before severely scolding me for failing to turn off the stereo receiver before leaving home.
He then launched into an in-depth lecture about the sensitivity of the components and the value of the equipment and insisted that my singular offense was “absolutely unacceptable.” I humbly apologized for the oversight, but he immediately dismissed my apology.
“You have to promise me that will never happen again,” he demanded.
I explained that I would do my best while confessing I could not make such a promise.
“That’s not good enough,” he fumed. “You have to promise me.”
emotions surfaced: a constant fear of what new tactics my abuser might employ to torment me now that I was no longer within easy reach, fears with regard to the kind of future my children and I might face, and on top of it all there was the heartbreaking realization that some people whom I considered friends clearly could not accept the reality of what was going on my life.
