“He Doesn’t Hit You… So What’s the Problem?”
That phrase was etched into my mind, repeated so often I could say it in my sleep.
“He doesn’t hit you. He doesn’t che.at. He doesn’t drink. So why are you complaining?”
I heard it from everyone—friends, family, even coworkers—like it was some kind of universal rule.
Now that the kids had moved out, it was just me and Tony. And the truth I’d tried to ignore for years was finally staring me in the face.
We both worked hard. I even earned more than he did. Yet after a full day at the office, I came home to clean, cook, do laundry—while he lounged on the couch, remote in hand, acting like I owed him something.
One night, as usual, Tony called from the living room. “Carmen! There’s dust on the TV! What are you doing all day?”
I laughed dryly. “Then clean it yourself.”
He scoffed. “What am I, the woman of the house?”
“I’m tired too,” I shot back. “I just did the laundry and started dinner. You’ve been sitting all evening.”
He leaned back. “Sarah at work works full-time too, and her house is spotless. And she actually takes care of herself.”
That was it. “If she’s so perfect, go live with her! I’m done!”
I stormed upstairs, my chest heaving. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed a suitcase and packed.
I didn’t know where I was going—just that I needed space. Somewhere by the ocean sounded peaceful.
Later, at a gas station, I stopped for water and snacks. At the counter, I saw someone staring. Familiar, somehow. When he smiled, I recognized him instantly.
“David?” I breathed.
He laughed and hugged me. “Wow. Carmen. What brings you here?”
“Vacation,” I lied.
“If you need a place to stay, I run a nearby motel. Discount for you,” he joked.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I need some time alone.”
Back in the car, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. My first love. Out of nowhere.
But before I could go far, the car sputtered and died. Great.
A car pulled up beside me. David again. “Need help?”
He popped the hood, took one look, and said, “You’ll need repairs. I know a guy. While we wait, you can crash at my place.”
I agreed. The mechanic later confirmed it: a few days at least.
David and I spent more time together. Coffee in the morning. Dinner at night. Old sparks lit up again.
One night, I asked, “Do you ever think about what we could’ve been?”
“Every day,” he said. Then he kissed me—and for a moment, I felt young again.
But in the morning, Tony’s message sat on my phone, begging me to come home.
I quietly packed. David caught me.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Stay. I love you.”
I left anyway. On the bus, his words echoed. I bolted to the front. “Stop! I need to get off!”
I rushed back to the motel and stopped short when I overheard the mechanic talking to David.
“That was quite the plan you pulled,” the mechanic said.
David replied, “I had to make sure she didn’t leave.”
My stomach dropped.
“You knew what I’d been through,” I said, stepping out. “And you manipulated me anyway.”
David looked pained. “I did it for us.”
“No, David. You did it for yourself.”
I got in my car and drove.
Not back to Tony. Not into David’s arms.
This time, I chose the one person who had never truly chosen me before—
Myself.
