Everyone Thought I Married The Perfect Gentleman. For 7 Years, I Lived A Nightmare Hidden Behind Flowers And Polished Doors. Then One Broken Dish Exposed The Monster Within. Am I Wrong For Wanting Him To Die Alone?
The First Blow
By 1984, I was pregnant with our first child. I thought maybe a baby would change things. Maybe Richard would soften. Maybe Dorothy would finally accept me as part of the family.
I was wrong. My pregnancy was difficult. I was sick constantly, exhausted all the time, and Richard had no patience for any of it.
He complained that I wasn’t keeping up with the housework. He complained that I wasn’t being attentive enough to his needs. Dorothy suggested that maybe I was exaggerating my symptoms for attention.
Our son Michael was born in February of 1985. He was perfect, 7 lb 4 oz, with his father’s dark hair and my mother’s eyes. When I held him for the first time, I felt a love so powerful it took my breath away.
I swore I would protect him with my life. I swore I would give him a better childhood than the one I could see forming around us.
But Richard saw Michael as competition. He resented the attention I gave our son. He resented the midnight feedings, the crying, the disruption to his routine.
He started staying late at work. He started going out with friends on weekends. And when he was home, he was angry.
The first time Richard hit me was when Michael was 4 months old. The baby had been colicky all day and I hadn’t had time to prepare dinner. When Richard came home to a crying baby and no food on the table, he slapped me across the face so hard I fell against the kitchen counter.
I was in shock. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I stood there holding my burning cheek while Richard calmly said,
“Maybe next time you’ll remember your priorities.”
He walked to the phone and ordered pizza like nothing had happened.
Trapped in the Cycle
I should have left that night, I know that now, but I had nowhere to go. My mother was dead. I had lost touch with most of my friends because Richard didn’t like me spending time with them.
I had no money of my own and I had a 4-month-old baby who needed to be fed and changed and loved. So I stayed, and I prayed, and I made excuses. He was just stressed. It was just once. It wouldn’t happen again.
But it did happen again, and again, and again. The violence escalated over the next two years. Richard learned to hit me where the bruises wouldn’t show.
He learned that threatening Michael was even more effective than hitting me. He learned that I would do anything, say anything, be anything he wanted if it meant keeping my son safe.
Dorothy knew. I’m certain of it now. She saw the bruises I couldn’t quite hide. She heard the way Richard spoke to me, but she never said a word. She never tried to help.
If anything, she seemed to believe I deserved it.
“Richard works hard to provide for this family,”
She would say.
“The least you can do is keep him happy.”
The Broken Dish
In early 1987, I discovered I was pregnant again. I hadn’t planned it. Richard and I barely had a relationship anymore, just brief cold encounters that left me feeling empty and ashamed.
But the pregnancy test was positive and I had to tell him. To my surprise, Richard seemed pleased. He wanted another child, preferably a daughter this time.
He said,
“Maybe this pregnancy would help me finally become the wife he deserved.”
He said he was willing to give me another chance.
His good mood lasted about a month. By my second trimester, Richard was more volatile than ever. The stress of another baby coming, the financial pressure, the demands at work—it all seemed to fuel his rage.
And Dorothy was around more than ever, criticizing everything I did, undermining every decision I made, poisoning my husband against me. Which brings me back to that Thanksgiving evening in 1987.
Dorothy had insisted on hosting dinner at our house. She said it would be easier since I was pregnant and shouldn’t be traveling, but she made it clear that she would be in charge of everything.
She arrived early that morning with groceries, decorations, and a list of instructions for me that was three pages long. I spent the entire day trying to meet her impossible standards while also caring for 2-year-old Michael and managing the exhaustion of being 8 months pregnant.
Richard sat in the living room watching football, completely oblivious to the chaos in the kitchen. The ceramic dish I dropped was an antique. It had belonged to Dorothy’s grandmother, passed down through three generations, and Dorothy had brought it specifically to serve the turkey.
When it slipped from my swollen, tired fingers and shattered on the kitchen floor, the sound it made was like a gunshot. Everything stopped.
Dorothy came running in from the dining room, took one look at the broken pieces, and let out a shriek that I will never forget.
“You clumsy worthless woman,”
She screamed.
“That dish was irreplaceable! How could you be so careless?”
I tried to apologize. I got down on my knees, 8 months pregnant, trying to pick up the pieces.
“I’m so sorry,”
I said, tears streaming down my face. My hands were wet.
“It just slipped. I’m so sorry.”
