“He Doesn’t Hit You… So What’s the Problem?”
That phrase was etched into my mind, repeated so often I could say it in my sleep.
“He doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t che.at. He doesn’t drink. So why are you complaining?”
I heard it from everyone—friends, family, even coworkers—like it was some kind of universal rule.
Now that the kids had moved out, it was just me and Tony. And the truth I’d tried to ignore for years was finally staring me in the face.
We both worked hard. I even earned more than he did. Yet after a full day at the office, I came home to clean, cook, do laundry—while he lounged on the couch, remote in hand, acting like I owed him something.
I laughed dryly. “Then clean it yourself.”
He scoffed. “What am I, the woman of the house?”
“I’m tired too,” I shot back. “I just did the laundry and started dinner. You’ve been sitting all evening.”
He leaned back. “Sarah at work works full-time too, and her house is spotless. And she actually takes care of herself.”
That was it. “If she’s so perfect, go live with her! I’m done!”
I stormed upstairs, my chest heaving. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed a suitcase and packed.
I didn’t know where I was going—just that I needed space. Somewhere by the ocean sounded peaceful.
Later, at a gas station, I stopped for water and snacks. At the counter, I saw someone staring. Familiar, somehow. When he smiled, I recognized him instantly.
“David?” I breathed.
He laughed and hugged me. “Wow. Carmen. What brings you here?”
“Vacation,” I lied.
“If you need a place to stay, I run a nearby motel. Discount for you,” he joked.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I need some time alone.”
Back in the car, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. My first love. Out of nowhere.
But before I could go far, the car sputtered and died. Great.
