Separation 1995-96

I listened to the sound of the tires on the gravel driveway when my husband returned home from work. My body involuntarily responded to the speed and quality of the stopping. My breath froze. I listened for the opening of the car door. How long did it take to close?  How quickly did he turn the knob of the front door? These clues forced expressions on my face and words out of my mouth intended to avoid a fight. But the body doesn’t lie. Two years of this, maybe five, maybe eighteen. Time is blurry, like eyesight. Clarity that I wasn’t crazy, or an inadequate mother, or a manipulative bitch resided more deeply inside of me than the mirror he was holding in front of my face.