We were eating dinner together. I confessed that I could see, under a very particular set of circumstances, hurting their father. Of course I would regret it. Of course I couldn’t believe I could say something like that, but this particular brand of hurt has caused me to do many “arrestable” things, as they say. So, I just will never drink too much and have access to weapons while fighting with their father.
The expressions on their faces drained into their throats. The younger adult child offered to take plates into the house. The older adult child suggested I wasn’t getting enough, or maybe the right kind, of treatment.
I doubled down. No one understood the depth of is pain but me, the scorned wife. I told him it was worse than being raped in college and contracting an STD that took two courses of antibiotics to get rid of and that most certainly, irreparably compromised my immune system.
You were raped in college?
My dreams were of the kids wandering around carrying empty picture frames, searching the ground for pieces of an old portrait of me, to piece back together an acceptable image of their mother.