Ashes of the Morning

I woke up in the bed I had shared with him, although he was not there.

Again.

Instead, snuggled in beside me was my three-year-old daughter, Georgia. Named after the Ray Charles song. She was the most beautiful child I had ever seen. The melody of "Georgia On My Mind" could not compare to her gentle feminine features.

I loved to just stare at her in this restful state, her hair falling in tangled ringlets around her chubby cheeks as she slept. She was so peaceful like this, a drastic contrast to her waking personality.

She was a spitfire. Full of sass and fearless to a fault. Brave and adventurous without thinking of any consequences. She knew she was special, and I would never let her believe otherwise.

One of her better qualities as a toddler was that she slept like a lumberjack who had been working for days with no rest. She snored, loudly, and it took a major disaster to get her to wake up before she wanted to. She tossed and turned, and typically I would wake up with her feet pressed either into my neck or ribs and covered in sweat.

Motherhood was very glamorous.

I loved this child so much that it physically made me ill to think about leaving her to go to work. Missing all of her first milestones like rolling over, crawling, and walking was my punishment for crimes I must have committed in previous lives.

We lived in the basement of Jason's parents' house.

The same place where he had violated my innocence so many years before.

We had never lived anywhere else during our marriage. We couldn't afford it.

Jason hadn't had a job since Silas, our eight-year-old, was born. We were flat broke and drowning in debt. This simple fact kept us in this basement. In the house where I never felt welcome.

It was certainly not our home.

We were the secret in the basement that Jason's parents wanted to keep hidden.

Georgia hardly stirred while I shimmied out of our bed. I headed silently to the bathroom to try to have a moment to myself before work. I quickly showered, dressed, and carefully applied a small amount of makeup.

While I was brushing my teeth, I heard him stumble through the front door.

It was directly above the basement bathroom, and his heavy steps were unmistakable.

I clicked the bathroom door locked and continued with my morning routine.

I knew immediately that I had made a mistake.

His punishments for my lapses in judgment were always the same—grabbing, throwing things, or taking my dignity by forcing some kind of sexual encounter.

I had hoped he would try the handle, see it was locked, and just go to bed, sparing the kids a fight.

I was wrong.

As usual.

He tried the door handle, then began pounding.

"Why is this door locked? Are you talking to your little boyfriend in there?" he shouted.

I didn't have my phone with me in the bathroom, but the answer would have remained the same.

I had never had another boyfriend.

Ever.

He was the only person I had ever hugged, kissed, or fucked. All of it was given to him. I was loyal. Fiercely so. Too loyal, maybe. Too proud to admit when I needed help.

Too proud to admit that I was drowning in my marriage.

"I told you to never lock any doors," he bellowed.

I gingerly opened the door and took a step back so he could enter.

"You'll wake the kids, and I have to go to work," I tried to implore, almost begging.

"I don't give a fuck. Why is this door locked?"

He didn't give me a chance to respond before his hands were gripping my arms.

"I told you to never lock doors in this house."

He was so close to my face that I could smell the alcohol, smoke, and a perfume I recognized. It was a sickening combination.

He shook me as his fingers dug into my skin.

"I know, I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I just didn't want Silas to come in while I was on the toilet."

The slap came out of nowhere.

I saw stars, and the side of my face burned.

Looking back, I cannot believe I let this limp-dick motherfucker hit me and then stood there apologizing to him.

Trauma is a hell of a drug.

"Never presume to think that I won't get in," he spat.

"I wasn't...you just got here...I didn't think..." was all I could muster.

"Momma?"

The small voice came from behind Jason.

It was Silas. He was rubbing his eyes.

"I gotta peepee," he said quietly.

Jason released my arms and stalked toward our bedroom.

I knelt down on the bathroom floor, trying to compose myself enough to pretend to be okay. Silas came to my side and lovingly kissed my tear-streaked face.

I guess I had begun crying, but I don't remember it.

Silas smoothed my hair and laid his cheek on my shoulder in a timid hug.

"It's okay, Momma," he lovingly whispered.

This was not the first time Jason had hurt me.

It wasn't the worst.

Somewhere between our first dates and eight years of marriage, affection had become control, sex had become obligation, and I had learned to measure a good morning by whether anyone left bruised.

I had spent years explaining him to myself.

Stress.

Drugs.

Money.

His childhood.

My shortcomings.

Anything was easier than admitting that this was simply who he had become.

I hate how easily those excuses came to me. I had an explanation for every cruel thing he did and almost none for why I deserved better.

I composed myself and stood. Seeing me crying would set him off even more.

I had to get to work.

Silas closed the bathroom door as I walked toward our bedroom, knowing I was walking straight back into conflict.

Jason was already poised for a fight when I entered.

"Where were you all night?" I asked quietly, but in an even tone.

I knew he was going to lie to me, and honestly, I didn't care anymore.

But I still asked.

"I was out. I had sales to make. Got lit and crashed at Jeff's."

Lies.

Always lies.

I knew he probably left Jeff's and spent the night with one of the multiple women he had been sleeping with.

Not the married ones this time. He typically couldn't sleep at their houses.

Most likely Britt.

She was the sister of one of our mutual friends, and he had been hiding their affair very poorly.

He always smelled like the cheap Bath and Body Works body sprays when he left her.

This morning it was "Sensual Amber."

He had bought me the same one for my birthday the year before, and I despised it. Eventually, I realized he'd bought it to cover his tracks. If he came home smelling like it and I questioned him, he could claim it was because I had been wearing it.

He never bothered to notice that I had never broken the seal on my bottle.

Apparently this was his version of operational security.

Honestly, I didn't mind when he was out with other women.

When he was home during the night, I wasn't allowed to sleep.

He would keep the television or radio on at high volume. He would walk through the bedroom slamming things onto his desk or dresser. If the kids woke up, he made sure I woke up too—to feed them, change them, and get them back to sleep.

Jason hardly slept at night, but he would never help with nighttime tasks, even if I had to go to one of my jobs the next morning.

When I slept, I was allowed a small portion of the bed, typically on my side facing away from him.

I learned not to move.

If I did, he would shove me off the bed.

Most nights, he helped himself to my body. Never asking. Never providing foreplay. I would pretend to be asleep, mostly because I hoped he would leave me alone.

It rarely worked.

He would slide my underwear or pajama pants down to my thighs, forcefully enter me, and be done within a minute or so.

Then he would roll over and fall asleep while I lay there silently crying.

It took me years to call that what it was.

He was my husband, so I called it sex.

I know better now.

"Jason, I have to go to work. Georgia hasn't moved, but she'll be up soon, and she needs breakfast today, please."

I always had to remind him to feed her.

Silas could get breakfast mostly on his own because he was eight, but Georgia wasn't allowed. She had a hard time controlling the milk jug alone. The last time she tried, it caused a huge spill that I was punished for later.

"I fucking know. I've been taking care of her since your neglectful ass decided to run away to work. Don't you think I know how to care for my own fucking kids? You have turned my son into a faggot with his 'I gotta go peepee' bullshit. He's fucking eight years old. He needs to talk like it," he hissed.

Ah yes.

My selfish insistence on earning the money that kept us alive.

What a bitch.

This was a common theme with Jason.

The vitriol he showed our son was nothing unexpected. He had been making comments about Silas's sexuality since he was two years old.

Silas was a very soft-spoken, sweet boy. He gravitated toward books and princess-themed toys more than he ever liked traditional boy toys. Most of our friends with children had girls, so he rarely had boys his age to play with.

His favorite color was "sparkly hot pink," and he absolutely adored playing dress-up.

All of these things, in Jason's eyes, meant that Silas was gay.

It didn't matter that he could read full sentences at the age of two.

The only thing that mattered was Jason's perception of our son's undeveloped sexuality.

"Get the fuck going then. Go piss somebody else off."

From the unemployed grown man living in his parents' basement.

The audacity really was breathtaking.

He spat the words with absolute disgust in his eyes.

I decided to leave before another excuse to hit me came to mind.

There was no warmth.

No affection.

Just get the fuck out.

This was how it had been for years.

I walked back toward the bathroom only to find Silas waiting for me cautiously.

"Momma, is Dad mad again today?" he nearly whispered.

"Yes, my sweet prince. Why don't you go back to bed for a little bit and then see if Grandma will help you get ready for school?" I responded, trying to use hushed, soothing tones.

"Okay, Momma. I just wanted to know if I should be extra quiet again today."

He stated it simply.

There was no question posed.

It was a statement.

A fact.

He was eight years old. He should have been worried about cartoons and cereal, not calculating the emotional weather of a grown man.

He had to make himself invisible just as I had when I was a kid.

Those were the statements that ripped my heart out.

I tried to hide the abuse and hurt from him, but he was so smart.

He always knew.

He always saw.

I came from a very broken home, and I had so badly wanted better for my kids.

"Just stick with Grandma today, buddy. I'll see you after work, and we can read The BFG together, okay?" I offered.

"Okay, Momma."

He perked up at the promise. He was always excited for a reading date.

I had spent so many hours reading to him that it became an escape for both of us. We read almost every night I was home. He loved books that took place in distant lands with fierce children who fought monsters.

I guess he related to them the most.

I checked my face in the mirror before I left.

There were no marks from the slap yet, only some redness. I wiped away the tear stains and mascara, added a little extra powder, and was satisfied enough with the result.

This had been a better fight.

If there is such a thing.

To understand the basement, you have to understand the house above it—especially the woman who ruled it.

If Jason was the storm, his mother was the climate that created him.

I wiped the last traces of mascara from beneath my eyes, smoothed my hair, and tried—again—to make myself look like someone who wasn't falling apart.

Someone who could walk upstairs without triggering another explosion.

Someone who could survive one more morning in that house.

But the moment I stepped out of that bathroom, the reminder was always waiting.

The basement was its own kind of hell, but upstairs...

Upstairs was hers.

Jason's violence was loud, immediate, predictable.

Sandra's cruelty was quieter—calculated, continuous, and wrapped in scripture.