Page 3 of Matteo

With a final curse, he swipes a rough hand at my head without any of the power of his previous blows. He learned not to hit me in the face, not because he cared if anyone saw my bruises—the bone hurt his hand with how hard he hit me.

“Stupid bitch.” He mutters. “I’m going to Jack’s to get some sleep. His woman knows how to keep her kids under control. Clean this place up before I get back.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I don’t move until he slams the door behind him. He was going to do it. Danny was going to hit Layla. If he had, he would have broken something in her small body. At almost six feet and a former construction worker—only not working because he hurt himself at work—he’s strong with thick meaty hands.

It’s almost every day now. He used to only hit me once or twice a week. But over the last few months, Layla couldn’t breathe without him losing his temper and hitting me. I tried so hard to keep her quiet, to please him. I’ve gotten so stressed out I’ve dried up, unable to breastfeed Layla the way I wanted to. The way I needed to because formula is insanely expensive.

Layla pats my face with tears in her own eyes. How could I have been so stupid? This is what I grew up with—a father who yelled and screamed and hit my mother. Then he moved on to me and my two older brothers. I promised myself I would do things differently. That I would never end up with a man like my father.

For the first two years, there was the typical male lack of empathy, like forgetting birthdays, not getting me anything for Christmas, and never cooking or cleaning, but he always half-heartedly apologized and promised to do better. The way he would tease me about going to school and how hard it was for me to read and study with dyslexia. He would ‘joke’ about what I ate and my weight.

The abuse started slowly, only after we moved in together. I didn’t see it as abuse. After all, it was minor things like the joking and teasing that became meaner—mocking and belittling my weight and dyslexia, throwing a dish when he hated what I made for dinner. Gradually, there were fewer apologies and more accusations I was too sensitive.

But I was never afraid of him.

We were both shocked when he slapped me for the first time. I wanted to leave then. Except I was seven months pregnant, and he was on his knees begging for forgiveness.

I also had nowhere to go or money to do it with. I hadn’t found a job after our move to Waco. He told me that I didn’t need a job and didn’t want me working when the baby we planned for came anyway. The reason we moved to Waco was so he could earn more money for me to be a stay-at-home mom, he reminded me.

There was no family for me to run to. My older brothers fled our home and didn’t look back after my mother died from an overdose when I was fourteen. I had few friends in the small town we left. We weren’t close enough I felt comfortable asking them for help. I had no friends at all in Waco.

Stupid. I shouldn’t have stayed after the first time he hit me. I should have paid attention to how quickly he stopped caring about me or the baby after he found out it was a girl.

At the time, I was so excited. All I was focused on was my pregnancy and preparing for the little girl I always wanted. I’d heard about dads not being excited over having a girl and then falling in love with them when they were born. Of course, he would love her when she got here.

Then Danny got hurt at work when I was six months pregnant. There was no money coming in, so I had to go back to waitressing.

I worked up until the day before I went into labor. He drove me to the hospital, dropping me off at the ER entrance. His promise of going in after he parked the truck was a lie. He never came.

Even when the nursing staff called him to tell him that I needed an emergency cesarian and wanted him there with me because I was terrified. My calls and texts were ignored for the almost three weeks that I was in the hospital with an infection. Layla should have gone home after only a few days. But since he wouldn’t come get her, she stayed with me in my room.

Danny wouldn’t even pick us up to bring us home. One of the nurses took pity on me. She gave me a ride home and the car seat and baby carrier she no longer needed.

I was terrified he wouldn’t even let me into the apartment. Thankfully, my key still worked.

When he walked in, he was surprised to see me but acted like it was any day. He shrugged off my questions and ignored Layla.

From the day I got home, the verbal abuse was constant. He didn’t want me breastfeeding because it was gross. But we couldn’t afford formula, so I hid with her in the bedroom—keeping her out of sight. He treated Layla as though her presence offended him.

The first time he hit me with intent was two weeks after I was home from the hospital. He ordered me back to work because there was no food in the house. I was astonished he thought I could work. There was no way. I was recovering from a cesarian and in pain. He’d taken my pain pills and threw a bottle of Tylenol at me when I begged him for them. How could he tell me to go to work?

The words were barely out of my mouth when he backhanded me. I was stunned, unable to speak or even move. Then he did it again and again until I was on the floor. None of it made sense. It wasn’t happening, it was a bad dream.

Except it wasn’t. He was standing over me, threatening me with a worse beating if I didn’t go to work the next day and bring home money and something to eat. Or I could leave, pack up my shit and the brat and get the fuck out.

All I wanted to do was do exactly what he said: pack up our things and leave. But I had nothing and nowhere to go. As I lay there, I promised myself it was the last time he would hit me.

It was a promise I couldn’t keep, but I made another promise to myself: I would go back to work and, with the money I earned, leave him. Except he took all my money. The minute I walked out of the restaurant, he demanded my apron.

I’ve managed to squirrel away nine hundred dollars, hiding tips in my bra—I didn’t need to worry about him seeing me taking my bra off. Ever since I was six months pregnant with Layla, he thought I was too fat for him to touch.

I’ve taken it all these months and would have continued to endure it until I had enough money to leave. What I have saved is almost laughable. I have no idea how far I can go on it. I wanted more money to escape with. The plan was for two thousand.

Except I don’t have time. He would have hit Layla. Deep down, I know next time he will hit her.

Danny didn’t care about her. Sometimes, I think he hates her. He’s never held her once. I don’t understand it. She’s a good baby, calm and smiling, only crying when she was hungry or needed her diaper changed. I had to pay a girl next door to watch her when I was waitressing because I was too scared to leave her alone with him.

Rocking Layla, all I can think is that I’m failing her. I’m failing at everything. In a week, I’ll be twenty-seven. The only good thing I have to show for my life is Layla.