Chapter 16
I felt no victory.
Only grief.
Because somewhere beneath everything he had become was the man I had married.
The man who brought soup to my apartment when I had the flu.
The man who danced with me barefoot after our rehearsal dinner.
The man who cried when we first heard our daughter’s heartbeat.
Those moments had been real.
That was what made leaving difficult.
People thought abuse meant every moment had to be terrible.
It didn’t.
If every moment had been terrible, I would have left much sooner.
The good memories were not proof that the bad ones were false.
They were the reason I had spent so long doubting myself.
Grant looked up.
“Can we fix this?”
I felt my daughter move.
A slow stretch beneath my ribs.
I rested my hand over her.
“No.”
His face changed.
Not anger.
This time it was grief.
Real grief.
Maybe he finally understood.
Or maybe he simply realized grief could not change my answer.
“Emma, please.”
“I loved you.”
“Loved?”
“Yes.”
He shut his eyes.
I went on because I needed to hear myself say it.
“I loved you enough that I kept shrinking the truth. Every time you crossed a line, I moved the line so our marriage could survive. You grabbed me, and I told myself you didn’t hit me. You broke things, and I told myself you didn’t break me. You frightened me, and I told myself you were under pressure. You cheated, and I prepared to leave quietly because I still didn’t want to embarrass you.”
He looked sick.
“And then you hit me.”
“I know.”
“No. Listen.”
His mouth closed.
“You hit me in front of the woman you were sleeping with. While I was eight months pregnant. After telling me not to speak. Then the first thing you wanted was for me to protect you from the police.”
A tear moved down his cheek.
I had seen Grant cry only four times in eleven years.
Once at our wedding.
Once when his father died.
Once when we lost our first pregnancy.
Once when we heard this baby’s heartbeat.
I watched the tear reach his jaw.
My heart still hurt.
That was the cruel part.
Leaving someone did not mean your body immediately forgot loving them.
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
“I believe you’re sorry.”
Hope flickered in his face.
I finished.
“But sorry is not the same as safe.”