It was never about the work. It’s not about the pots I spent hours scrubbing clean. It wasn’t about the hours dedicated daily and weekly to keeping a spotless house, folded laundry, or good food prepared from scratch daily. It wasn’t about the traditional lifestyle I never asked for or wanted but embraced whole heartedly. You wanted gourmet meals, lavish lunches, a daily cake made from scratch daily for breakfast; fresh ground coffee delivered any time you asked for it. And I gave it, willingly. Anything to try and appease and please and impress.

You wanted a companion, but not just any companion would do. I couldn’t ask for much for myself; but instead I was happy holding the end of the rope and belay you for hours while you screamed like a maniac at rock walls you weren’t skilled enough to climb. Even when you nearly killed me by pulling a boulder down on my head, I still stayed and was happy when I got one rope put up for me in a day and appreciated the warmth of the sun and a day spent in dalliance.

You wanted a sex pot, a beautiful woman, elegance and porn combined into one package. I still remember the shame I felt when you loudly compared my ass to another woman’s while I was shopping for baby clothes at Carter’s, only 2 months out of childbirth.

You wanted. And you took. I couldn’t pour a glass of water for myself to enjoy without watching you spy it and loudly drink every bit of it, leaving me one mouthful of your spit – every day for 17 years.

You wanted. And you took, only for yourself. When I finally gained enough courage to file to leave you, you drained every bank account – even mine – closed every card down, and then sat back and enjoyed meals I purchased with charity gift cards from our church and prepared for the family without complaint. When the courts started to get frustrated with your lack of compliance, you simply snagged your girlfriend and fled the country – enlisting your parents and brother in the game of steal the money and run.

And now, even now, you call on the boys’ birthdays and expect a heroes welcome. You expect them to attend to your every story of greatness. You send them pictures of you and your girlfriend dressed to the nines attending fancy museums and restaurants and ocean fronts and beaches and hotels, spending money you stole from your own children’s plates and living a life without responsibility or accountability.

And you think the children don’t see it? Of course they do. You think they will love you still when finally you meet them again, face-to-face, when they are men? Or that they might even respect you (something you desire even more than love) or that they would want the poisoned money you stole from their upbringing and spent on a woman happy to live a shallow life as your playmate?

Narcissism is a poison, and so are sociopaths. I know I was married to a nasty combination of both, and while he can no longer influence me and I can stand on my own, in my own home, he still has influence over the boys’ mental health who need a father. I can only pray that God our Father in heaven and the community that surrounds me will be enough to heal the wounds caused by a man who has no idea of the damage he has caused them.

Pray for me. Pray for my children. Pray that as young men like mine grow into adults and raise families of their own, that they heal from their wounds and always have God by their side and that their hearts and minds know only love for one another.