His mother would bring groceries and announce that I should be grateful.
Then, before dawn, they would return to the porch.
Abuse often survives by splitting the day in two.
There is the part outsiders can see, and the part a family teaches the victim to doubt.
The old phone joined those two halves.
On the final morning, the air was already warm.
My husband had been angry since the night before because an appointment had not told us the baby’s sex.
He accused me of hiding it from him, as though I controlled what the doctor could see.
His mother said I was probably carrying another girl.
She said it with disgust.
I remember looking down at my stomach and thinking that the baby could hear them.
I wanted the baby to hear something else.
So while my husband tied my wrists, I whispered, “You are wanted.”
He heard me.
His face changed.
He demanded to know who I was talking to.
“The baby,” I said.
That answer made him angrier.
His mother stopped sharpening for only a second.
Then she told him I was mocking them.
The belt rose.
I turned as much as the rope allowed, trying to shield my abdomen with my shoulder and hip.
The first strike landed against the fabric of my dress.
