Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
When I hear the door alarm chime, indicating Rick is home, I rush out to greet him. He’s toeing off his expensive loafers and shrugging out of his suit jacket, when I make my presence known. He looks up, and I hold my breath, praying his reaction will be receptive. That he’ll once again look at me like I’m his entire world. He’ll take me into his arms and lay me down on the bed and make love to me. I’ll tell him about the baby, and he’ll spend the rest of the night worshipping my body.
I’ll be the respected queen to my king.
For a brief moment, he stares at me. His gaze rakes down my body, and I think maybe today will be different. But then his face contorts into his usual look of disgust, and I know whatever he’s about to say won’t be good. So I do what I have learned to do over the years—put up my broken and fragile wall and pray his harsh words aren’t strong enough this time to completely demolish it.
“You would think with all the time on your hands, you would make an effort to lose weight,” he quips. “What else do you do all day?” He shoots me an accusatory look that makes me want to tell him to go fuck himself. And that makes me a bit proud that I still have even a single ounce of strength left in me to consider saying it. Even though it does no good when I don’t actually have any intention of acting on it. Been there, done that. Not stupid enough to ever do it again.
Instead, I stay stuck in my place as if my feet are glued to the ground beneath me—my voice refusing to speak the words I so badly want to say. I’m well aware I don’t do shit all day because he gives me a hard time every time I leave—always pointing out a woman’s place is in the home.
After the first few times of Rick putting me down, I started to go to the gym in our building, only he showed up and caused a scene when he saw me talking to one of the men who worked out there. It didn’t matter that he was only showing me how to properly use one of the machines. He forbade me to ever return, telling me I could workout at home. Months went by, and he kept pointing out I was putting on weight. He then began to put me down during sex, making comments about everything I ate, and pointing out the type of woman he does find attractive. At that point, I met with a nutritionist, who mentioned stress can cause weight gain. It doesn’t help I’m an emotional eater, and dealing with my husband can be emotionally stressful. I try to eat healthy, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not what he wants, and I never will be.
Whenever I would go to Forbidden Ink, my brothers’ tattoo shop, to hang out, he would give me a hard time, saying it’s not appropriate. When I would try to hang out with my sister-in-law, Celeste, and my niece Skyla, he would come up with a list of items that needed to be done. I still make it a point to see them when Rick goes away, but the more unhappy I become, the more my family notices, and the less I bring myself around them, not wanting to have to explain my entire life is a lie and in shambles.
Setting his jacket on the table, Rick steps closer and takes the silky fabric of the negligée between his fingers. “Delicate items like these are meant for women who take care of their bodies, not for women who let their bodies go to shit. Take it off. Now. You don’t deserve to wear something so exquisite when you clearly don’t appreciate it.”
Knowing better than to respond, I nod once and turn on my heel. I knew this was going to happen, so why would I willingly put myself in this situation? Maybe I just needed to hear it one last time. For him to confirm where we stand.
“Wait,” he says, and I turn around, my heart filling with false hope. “Put my shoes and jacket away,” he commands, his voice devoid of all emotion.
I nod again, walking over to grab his jacket, and then reaching down to grab his shoes. When I stand upright, I feel his hand on my wrist. I look up into his cold, blue eyes. The same eyes I once found warmth in. “How do you think it makes me feel as your husband, to have to see the way you’ve let yourself go? I’m the one who has to see you naked…touch you… How can you expect me to want you when you don’t care about your own body?”