I told Ted I was leaving. He threw things, called me a bitch.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. With the right wig, he’d look exactly like his mother.
“Nothing. I just need to go.”
“I don’t understand. I thought we were happy!” He had reason to believe this after my glowing recommendation to his parents.
“I’ve been trying to tell you – but, never mind, it’s okay. I just need to go.”
“Tell me what?” he said. I no longer wanted to talk.
“I can’t explain.”
“What? Are you still on birth control?” he screamed in my face.
“Why?” I stepped back from him, and he came forward again.
“You're my wife! If you don't want to be married anymore, you shouldn’t be on birth control!”
“That’s none of your business. And I have a student mixer tonight.”
“I’m going with you!”
“You can’t—it’s just for students.”
"I don't care! I'm going!"
"I don't want you to go with me."
"I demand to know why you're taking birth control!"
"It's my body, Ted."
"We're one flesh!" he screamed.
How do you tell your husband of five years that there's nothing he can do or say to make you want him? To make you stay and provide him the reassurance he so desperately wants? That the very sight of him makes you cringe? What kind of person turns her back on vows and fine china? I was kicking a puppy. I didn’t love him, and I was a shrew. I sealed my fate with the liars and murderers. And those Love Boat passengers who wore halter tops.
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