“If you are so hungry, then start buying your own food and stop living off what I pay for,” Dominic said with a laugh. He wore that sly smile he always used when he wanted to humiliate me in front of someone and then pretend it was all a joke.
He blurted it out in the kitchen while I was putting away the grocery bags I had just brought back from the local market in Phoenix. The worst part was that he said it right when his cousin, Shane, was sitting at the table finishing the tacos I had made myself.
I stood motionless with a carton of milk in my hand because during eight years of marriage, I had learned to endure many things. I survived his cruel remarks, the surprise visits from his family, and the way his mother would appear unannounced to open the refrigerator as if it were hers.
I worked part-time at a clinic, paid several bills, and contributed to the grocery budget whenever I could, yet he still enjoyed portraying me as a kept woman. “I used my own card,” I told him while holding up my wallet for him to see so he would know I paid for all of this myself.