The only halfway legitimate version of an abusive wife I could conceive was that of a 400-pound woman squashing her rail-thin, hen-pecked husband because he forgot to bring home the extra side of gravy she wanted from KFC—fodder for I knew who my baby mama was, and I didn’t need a paternity test to prove that the three boys born during eight years of matrimony were mine.
I had been an all-state athlete, an Infantry Captain, and an accomplished corporate executive—positions that required strength and mental toughness.
On the other hand, I would be quick to admit that our blessed union was anything but.
The longer our marriage lasted the more my wife and I fought.
Months of restrained frustration erupted as I grabbed her and screamed in her face to leave me alone. Yet somehow my wife managed to twist isolated moments from my youth into a childhood fraught with abuse at the hands of my parents, none of which was remotely true.