Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A fter the movie night with June, Thomas stumbles into our bedroom, clearly drunk. Despite his gentle prodding, I manage to feign sleep, knowing he would demand an explanation for last night and expect me to make amends .

But tonight, I can’t bring myself to placate him further. I don’t want to sleep with my husband just to smooth things over. Too often, I’ve allowed this to happen, usually without getting anything out of it myself.

I immediately reprimand myself for this shameful thought because Thomas and I have good sex—even if it is the kind of sex you have after almost twenty years of marriage.

He no longer surprises me or does things that take my breath away like he used to, but he knows me well and knows what I like. After all, we’re no longer in our early twenties when we used to make love around the clock.

As usual, I rise before anyone else. Silently, I get ready in the bathroom and change into fresh clothes. I swiftly dress in a light summer skirt and top, then fetch the newspaper for Thomas so he can read undisturbed during breakfast. I deliberately avoid glancing at the house next door, opting to minimize interactions with the new neighbor as much as possible. It’s simpler this way and will likely spare me further complications.

When I re-enter the house, I prepare breakfast. The coffee machine hums in the background while I fry the bacon and boil the eggs.

After retrieving the baked pastries from the oven, I arrange the table and await the mouthwatering scent that always stirs my family awake, a cherished ritual every weekend. Although June no longer lives with us, she returns home every weekend. She spends her days with her childhood friends, meeting them right after breakfast and not coming back until late in the evening, as she does every weekend.

Thomas doesn’t like it when June goes out, even though she doesn’t drink secretly like other young adults her age. June is very responsible and wants to enjoy her youth. She doesn’t need drugs or alcohol to do that, just her friends and some privacy.

I fully support her and do my best to appease Thomas so he doesn’t cling so much and lets his little girl grow up. God forbid June comes home with a boy one day. She’s never been serious enough to introduce anyone to her dad before. She knows I’m a little more relaxed in general. I only ask her to be careful because I know what it means to become a mother at a young age.

Not that I regret it. God, I don’t regret the decision to become a mother for a second, and if I had had my way, we would have had a few more kids. But Thomas… let’s say one child was enough for him, and because he insisted, I got an IUD.

Footsteps echo from the stairs that lead to the kitchen. A few seconds later, June enters. Her father stomps down the other stairs in the hallway at that moment. My shoulders automatically tense up as his footsteps give me a hint that he’s not in the best of moods. Over the years, it has somehow become second nature to me to analyze my husband’s mood carefully to know what to expect during the day.

“Good morning, Mom,” June greets me, beaming joyfully.

Unlike her father, she’s always in a good mood. Well, almost always. Unless she has to admit to him that she doesn’t want to study law, but she’s pushed that thought aside for today.

“Good morning, you two,” I reply to both of them.

June smiles, but Thomas sits at the table without a word and grumpily grabs his newspaper. I hate being treated as invisible, but naturally, I say nothing about it. Especially not when our daughter is sitting at the table. So I put on my usual beaming smile and talk to June. She tells me about her classes, the girlfriends she misses, and a coffee date with a cute guy. The latter makes Thomas snort contemptuously, but we ignore it.

“Mom, do you need my help clearing the table, or is it okay if I leave early?” June wants to know after breakfast.

I can see she’s already on her way, and I smile encouragingly.

“It’s all right, dear. You go ahead. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Thanks, Mom. Oh, I’m probably going to be late, so don’t wait up for me,” she says, smiling broadly and disappearing from the kitchen.

“You’re too nice and let her get away with too much,” Thomas reprimands me, putting the newspaper aside and giving me a stern look.

“And you’re too strict. You impose too many restrictions on her and seldom allow her to have her own experiences. How is that supposed to benefit her in life?” I ask him over my shoulder as I put the butter back in the fridge.

“You seem to be speaking from experience,” he counters dryly, causing me to look at him in disbelief.

“I beg your pardon?” I blurt out in disgust, stunned by his suggestion. That was utterly undeserved and unnecessary.

He shakes his head and picks up his newspaper again, signaling that the conversation is likely over for him. I briefly contemplate whether it's worth starting an argument because that's exactly what would happen if I spoke up. Deciding against it, I choose to avoid conflict over trivial matters. I continue tidying up in silence until the kitchen is spotless once more. Meanwhile, Thomas has finished his second coffee and the morning paper.

“I’m going to the club,” he informs me matter-of-factly, gets up, and leaves me standing there.

A stinging feeling spreads through my chest. I hate it when he rejects me like this—being so cold and aloof toward me when I’ve done nothing wrong.

That’s why I can’t keep my composure any longer.

It’s enough.

“Why are you treating me like this?” I call after him and follow him.

“Leave it alone, Cora!” he hisses over his shoulder and grabs his golf gear from the cupboard next to the front door.

Something inside me snaps as he opens the door to leave without a second thought. It's as if a rope, stretched to its breaking point, suddenly snaps within me.

I grab him by the arm and pull him firmly back to me.

I’m beside myself with rage because he shouldn’t be talking to me like this. Not anymore.

“Thomas, I won’t accept you treating me like this!” I yell at him, completely ignoring the open front door.

But his skeptical look at my hand, which is still firmly gripping his arm, makes me realize what’s going on, and I immediately distance myself from him. What has gotten into me?

His blue irises are glowing with rage. His burning gaze holds mine and burns directly into my soul. He won’t tolerate me contradicting him, which I rarely do that because my primary goal is to make him happy. But recently, he’s become even more bossy and cold toward me, and I can’t understand why.

Don’t you even love me anymore?

“I think you should calm down now, and we’ll talk about your current behavior tonight.”

My jaw drops as he dismisses my emotional outburst, which couldn’t be more out of character for me. He treats it almost like I’m having a toddler’s tantrum, and there is no reason to be upset.

“And I think you should sleep in the guest room for the next couple of nights,” I counter dryly, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

His right eyebrow rises disparagingly, and he looks at me as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or continue to fly off the handle.

“Excuse me?” he asks in a dangerously velvety voice and slowly approaches me.

I almost feel like a rabbit that has fallen into the sly fox’s trap and has no chance of escaping.

Intimidated, I try to swallow the thick lump in my throat and look up at him as he steps very close to me.

“And why do you think you have the right to banish your loving husband from our marriage bed?” he demands in that dangerously calm voice of his.

The intense gaze of his blue eyes devours me. It corrodes my body like acid and burns me from the inside. Still, I don’t want to give in.

I don’t want to let him win. Even though I rarely put up with arguments, I prefer to keep the peace. The way he treats me, looks at me, and talks to me goes too far. It hurts me too deeply. I can no longer tolerate being hurt by my husband.

“As long as my husband, who loves me, doesn’t treat me like his wife, talks to me disrespectfully and behaves like a cold ass?—”

“Careful, Cora!” Thomas interrupts me with a hiss. Reflexively and much too roughly, he grabs my neck with his hand, squeezing it to cut off my words, then pulls me close to him.

Startled, I looked up at him because he had promised—or actually sworn to—me last time never to touch me like that ever again. In tears and on his knees, he had begged me not to leave him. He swore to do better and so much more. I believed him, as I had many times before. But at the time, I thought he was serious. That’s why I can’t stop my hand from hitting his cheek with a slapping sound, not even a blink of an eye later. It’s like a reflex that guides me to protect myself.

His head jerks slightly to the side, and my palm burns like fire. The fact that we are still standing in front of the open front door in our hallway is irrelevant to me. I don’t even care about the motorcycle passing by, which seems to have slowed its speed and whose driver must have witnessed the scene. Thomas has massively crossed the line here, and he knows it.

“Don’t come home today!” I whisper, gasping, after his hand has released my neck.

I don’t want him in my house anymore. Not like this. Not if he turns into that monster of a man again. I can’t take it anymore. I put up with it for too many years and put up with everything he did to me because I didn’t want to deprive June of her father and, therefore, her perfect family. Then, when she started college and I no longer had any reason to stay with him, I was too afraid that he would no longer support June financially. I knew if she discovered why I was considering separation, she would help me and upset her father. I couldn’t put her through that. Everything I have ever done was to secure my daughter’s happiness. June is my everything, and I’d go through hell itself for her—even if it means sacrificing my wants and needs. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat and will continue to do so.

Abruptly, he lets go of me and looks at me with terror in his eyes. His red cheek is glowing angrily. He blinks rapidly, and a thousand thoughts seem to be running through his head. But I don’t care.

He has to leave. Now!

Thomas wants to say something and opens his mouth, but I don’t want to let him sweet-talk me into forgiving him again. It has happened far too many times. I was young, naive, and foolishly believed in the idea of first and only true love. But I'm no longer sixteen. I'm an adult, and I know how life works. He is my husband, and I love him, but I don’t have to put up with this.

So, I take another step back. I rub my hands over my neck, which is throbbing painfully, and although I will them to stop, tears spring into my eyes.

Thomas looks at me, nods gently for a long moment, and leaves our house.

I snap out of my daze and let the tears fall when he closes the door behind me. My entire body trembles and it feels like I can sense every punch, kick, and blow from all those years on my skin again. It’s as if all the countless bruises are reappearing and spreading across my body. I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, seeking solace in the comfort of my embrace.

It’s excruciating that he would dare to touch me like that again. After the last argument and his solemn promises, I had hoped it was indeed the end of it. His remorse seemed so genuine. We had enjoyed months of peaceful calm between us. Yet, over the past few weeks, he’s reverted to being controlling and distant. I should have seen it coming, but it still shocks me deeply.

Is it possible that he will ever change? And if not, will I have the courage to leave him…? I know the answer to both questions, which is simple: No, I won’t.

Tears are streaming down my face. I rub my arms repeatedly, trying to give my feelings an outlet, but it’s useless. They overwhelm me, dragging me down into the dark depths of my soul, into a terrible, deep black abyss from which I know I can't free myself alone.

I press my hand against my mouth to suppress the choked scream trying to escape from my throat. This can’t be happening again! I refuse to feel like this anymore, teetering so close to the edge and fearing I’ll fall into the abyss because of him.

Because he broke his promise. Again.

I know that if I don’t put a stop to it now, he’ll hit me again. And again and again. No matter the circumstances.

He’ll raise his hand when the food is lukewarm because he arrived later than expected, and I didn’t anticipate it.

He’ll grab me by the hair and push my head onto the ironing board when his shirt isn’t creaseless because it’s my job to iron it properly.

He will hit me if I talk to a strange man without his permission.

But I can’t and don’t want to live like this anymore.

Sobbing, I rush outside into my garden. Tears blur my vision and continue to stream down my cheeks. I run across our lush, perfectly trimmed lawn toward the pool. Standing before it, I remain rooted, gazing at the water’s shimmering surface.

I try to calm myself, wrapping my arms tightly around my torso, cradling myself like a distressed child seeking comfort and protection, yearning to be held and loved unconditionally.

The sunlight dances on the rippling surface, casting me into a trance. It’s like a gentle siren song meant only for me—beautiful, irresistible, and composed solely for my ears. In an instant, I feel utterly calm. No pain, no turbulent thoughts dragging me back to my painful past, forcing me to relive it. Inside me, there’s only a serene silence. Almost peaceful…

Yes, I feel peaceful. My tears are drying up. The trembling has stopped as I descend the first stone step. My foot sinks into the cool water. The second follows, reaching the next step. The water is slowly sloshing up my calves, eating into the fabric of my skirt, making it heavy, as heavy as I need it to be.

My heartbeat is steady. So is my breathing, even though I’m on the verge of stepping into the pool fully clothed. I shut my eyes and embrace the cool water as it slowly envelops me. It welcomes me like an old friend, and I eagerly accept its embrace, sliding into the water with arms outstretched, ready to be surrounded and consumed by it forever.

Suddenly, I felt pressure around my wrist.

Startled, I turn around and look into a mix of amber and gold. Ezra…?

He’s standing in the pool with me. The water is soaking through his dark jeans up to his waistband. His expression is stern, yet I can see a glimmer of disbelief. His rough fingers encircle my wrist, instantly electrocuting my skin there. What are you doing here?