The Reason Why People Will Always Be Enthralled By Plainspoken High-Stakes Domestic Realism

“Sit down,” my husband said.

“No,” I said. He was always telling me to sit down or go away or come here or be quiet.

“I’m not joking,” he said.

“Neither am I.”

In the corner of the room, my daughter began to cry.

“See what you’ve done?” he said.

“You did it, Daddy,” she said.

“You be quiet,” he said.

“Don’t you tell her to be quiet,” I said. Through the front window, I could see the neighbors playing with their children. Why didn’t they ever yell at each other?

“I’m calling my mother,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” he said. He yanked the phone out of the wall.

“Fine,” I said. I picked up my daughter and walked toward the front door.

He blocked the front door. “Move,” I said.

“Make me,” he said. I punched at the wall beside his head and hit a wall stud. My hand came away bloody.

He knelt down and kissed my daughter on the head. “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “Mommy’s just going crazy a little.”

I took off my shirt and wiped at the blood on the wall.

“Honey,” he said, softly. “Please put your shirt back on.”