He Started It

by Samantha Downing

You want a heroine. Someone to root for, to identify with. She can’t be perfect, though, because that’ll just make you feel bad about yourself. A flawed heroine, then. Someone who may break the rules to protect her family but doesn’t kill anyone unless it’s self-defense. Not murder, though, at least not the cold-blooded kind. That’s the first deal breaker. The second is cheating. Men can get away with that and still be the hero, but a cheating wife is unforgivable.

That’s the thing about family. Despite what they say, it’s not a single unit with a single goal. What they never tell us is that, more often than not, every member of the family has their own agenda. I know I do.

Second, I don’t admire anyone. This is a trick question, because I’d basically be saying ‘I’m not these three women, I’ll never be these three women, but I admire them more than I admire myself.’ That’s screwed up, if you ask me. Like girls don’t have enough self-esteem problems already.

One day I might analyze these feelings instead of cleaning the house or something.

Doesn’t matter now. You can only do mental gymnastics for so long before you go insane.

You can’t fight every battle. Otherwise you end up bloodied, drained of energy, and unable to go on. Sometimes it’s better to agree and keep your mouth shut.

The threat of physical violence eclipses everything. As a child, you know it, and as a woman, it’s always in the back of your mind. The slam of a fist can change everything.

I’ve become the worst kind of wife. The stupid one.

for the most part, he’s been a wonderful husband – at least right up until he slammed his fist on the dashboard, reminding me that even the kind, easygoing men are capable of violence. I’m not waiting around to see if that fist hits me.