Years as a full-time homemaker had turned me, in Eric’s eyes, into a live-in maid. The slightest thing set him off. After so long under pressure, I snapped too. He never saw the labor it took to hold this family together.
This home wasn’t built by Eric alone.
His expression darkened.
Then, to my shock, he lunged at me, shoved me to the floor, pinned me with his weight, and kicked and punched me.
My head rang.
It took a long moment to realize: I was being assaulted—by my own husband.
I fought back with everything I had.
He only hit harder.
I screamed.
My nephew ran over, sobbing. “Uncle Eric, please don’t hit Auntie! It’s my fault—I’ll leave right now. I won’t ever eat eggs again!”
Years ago, my older brother stepped in to protect me from a thug, struck too hard, and was sentenced to eight years. My sister-in-law ran off after that, leaving their boy with my parents.
I’ve always felt guilty toward my brother.
So I’ve tried to be as good as I can to my nephew, to make up for it—without crossing Eric’s lines and without changing the household budget.
In the past, when Eric was upset, he’d at least wait to close the door before venting at me.
I never imagined he’d do this in front of my nephew.