“We lived with his parents the first three years of Violet’s life,” I spoke softly, as if that would make this story more palatable. As if my lowered voice might melt the ice statue Swiss had turned into. “Enough time for Preston to finish school, to get used to working at the bank, get situated.”
I sighed.
“That was the best time of my life, those three years,” I told him with a quiver to my voice. “Violet was a special baby. Quiet. Inquisitive. Soulful. She adored everyone. And her grandparents adored her right back. They were very hands on, ready to help me with anything and everything.”
My arms went around my body, as if I were trying to hold myself together. Which I was. Whatever remained of myself, I guessed.
“But Preston was an adult, working,” I explained. “He didn’t want to be living with his parents anymore. So he let his father give us the down payment on a house down the street. I was excited, even though I was so sad to leave. We’d have our own home. One that I would be the lady of, that I would fill with the same warmth and love as Preston’s parents.”
Sally had, of course, helped me decorate the entire thing. Her eye was excellent, and I trusted her taste. Plus, I hadn’t really developed one of my own.
“I didn’t have many friends. Everyone I’d known from high school was in college. But I had Violet, and I didn’t mind. I viewed our life as perfect. We were talking about another child. I thought I was miles away from the life my mother had.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“He hit me for the first time after he’d come home late from work,” I pushed the words out on little more than a whisper. “I’d made roast duck. I was mad because it was my first time making something fancy, and I’d spent all day on it. I told him that. And he just punched me square in the face. He left me on the floor and went to bed.”
The tile was cool against my body, and my face was stinging with pain. I didn’t even cry. It felt like my body was not my own. Like I was living out a story, a movie, a scene out of something that couldn’t be my life.
Eventually, Preston came back.
“Come to bed,” he demanded.
I’d stayed on the floor.
My body tensed as he walked toward me. I flinched away from his hands. But he’d lifted me up and carried me to bed.
The next morning, I’d woken up late. Preston had Violet in front of the TV. He brought me coffee.
His hair was wet from the shower, he was dressed for work. I’d watched him approach carefully. This was my husband. The man I’d been married to for four years. The boy who’d stood up to my mother. He was my safe place.
And in that moment, he was a stranger.
He leaned in to brush the hair from my face, and I stiffened.
“Not too bad,” he murmured, inspecting the area where I suspected there would be a nasty bruise. “You should be able to cover the worst of it with makeup,” he told me, straightening. “Just so Violet doesn’t notice. I’ll tell my parents you both have the flu. You won’t leave for a few days, until you can cover it properly.”
I’d blinked at him as he spoke, unable to compute his even tone, as if we were discussing an upcoming barbeque.
It filled me with anger. Fury.
“You need to move out,” I blurted suddenly.
Preston’s face cleared. Completely. It turned horrifyingly blank.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
I sat up in bed, wincing at the pain in my face. It felt tight and hot. “You need to move out,” I repeated, stronger this time. “If you do, I won’t press charges.”
Preston’s features transformed into the patronizing expression he wore with waiters. It was something I’d never realized I hated until this moment.
How he looked down on almost everyone.
Including me.
“You won’t press charges,” he informed me jovially. He seemed amused.
That only fed my anger. “You hit me,” I gritted out. “That is a crime. One that you could go to jail for.”