When I experienced a miscarriage at 26, I could have seen it as a sign from above. I mourned that little life, believing that it would have made everything right and maybe even changed him. But when I took too long to grieve, he made me feel ashamed for not moving on quickly enough.
There was only one occasion when he left a mark on me. Eight months pregnant with our daughter, we were driving home after dinner at my parents’ place. He suddenly erupted in anger, driving recklessly. As we hit the highway, I cried and pleaded with him to calm down. He grabbed my sleeve, twisting it and screaming for me to be quiet. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the SUV. Reaching across my belly, he opened my door and threatened to push me out if I didn’t stop crying. I fell silent.
When we got back home, I removed that maternity shirt, tears streaming down my face as I inspected the torn fabric. I crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash, burying the evidence of his abuse deep inside.
A month later, our daughter was born, and four years after that, we welcomed our son—a family that might have seemed wealthy on the surface. Yet, I soon discovered he was showering other women with gifts shortly after our son’s birth. The moment I caught wind of it, I transformed into a detective. Gathering evidence to expose his lies became my obsession.
He was a master manipulator, always trying to cover his tracks. But this time, I had credit card statements, spa receptionists, and even florists willing to help me piece things together. The spa receptionist was my favorite call when I pretended to be “her.” She gushed about how sweet he was while making an appointment for “his girlfriend.” He thought I was too clueless to catch on. For the first time in 11 years, I felt in control.
I remember sending a text to my best friend from high school, my maid of honor: “I saw a lawyer and filed for divorce. Can’t chat now, but we’ll catch up soon. Love you.” She later told me it was the best text she’d ever received. I’ll never forget the looks on my parents’ faces when I told them I had filed for divorce. They seemed relieved, maybe even happy.
The first thing I bought after he left was a new mascara from CVS. I had been using the same one for three years. I felt the weight of walking on eggshells finally lifting. Sometimes I reflect on that period and think we could have been the poster children for emotional abuse, a real-life Lifetime movie.
I often wonder why it took his infidelity for me to act when there were so many other red flags. I worry for my kids. I want them to understand that leaving is always an option, even right before or after the wedding. Returning gifts like champagne flutes is far easier than enduring years of emotional abuse. I can never share our “unlove” story with them; I must shield them from their father’s past.
I plan to tell them about a relationship that happened “before their dad,” sharing my experiences. I’ll cry real tears as I recount a man named “Jake,” who started off with breakfast in bed and thoughtful gifts.
I won’t hold back. They need to know what Jake did and how I found the strength to escape. They should understand that there’s always a way out. They don’t need to wait for physical abuse or cheating to justify leaving; emotional manipulation and hurtful words are enough. They should learn that even “just once” is one time too many.
Originally published on Aug. 21, 2015.