The reception dinner is full swing.
Clifford swaggered in thirty minutes late, covered in mud like he'd wrestled a pig, and lost. He peeled off his jacket, tossed it on a chair, and with zero fanfare said, "Your husband called. Said he drove into a field to clear his head. Got his little clown car stuck in mud."
Silence. Forks frozen mid-air.
Apparently, in his rage-fueled man tantrum, John had decided to go "clear his head" by driving his compact car into the Kansas wilderness, where —shockingly— it got buried in mud.
We all just blinked at Clifford.
Someone finally asked, "...And you helped him?"
Clifford shrugged like a man who regretted everything. "I probably shouldn't have."
The table erupted into laughter, because what else could we do? Cry more?
Honestly, I think that was the moment we all silently agreed: if John ever went missing in a field, maybe next time… we'd just leave him there. Probably buried six feet under.
I loved getting to spend time with my family and our friends that weekend. We laughed, we caught up, and for a little while, everything felt easy again. One of the best parts? I got to stay the night in the fancy house on the property. Apparently, when you rent the venue, you have to rent the house too, so naturally, we turned it into a giant cousin and friend slumber party.
It felt like being a kid again.
We made popcorn, watched movies, lounged in pajamas, and told stories way too late into the night. It had been years since we'd done anything like that. No husbands, no responsibilities, just us. I probably would've spent the whole time glued to my phone, but my sister wasn't having it. She snatched it right out of my hands and declared, "You don't get to disappear tonight."
She was right. I didn't realize how much I needed that night until I had it.
When we ended our night, I finally got my phone back. It was dead, so I didn't even bother turning it on. I woke up the next morning, had breakfast with my family, and finally powered it up.
Big mistake.
There were dozens of missed calls and messages from John. And in true narcissist fashion, they followed a script I'd come to recognize all too well. They started angry— furious, vile.
"Fuck you, bitch. I hate you. You're just like your mother. Fuck all of you."
Then the shift. The whiplash.
"I didn't mean for that to happen. You know I'd never act like that. Your mom just knows how to push me. You know she always sets me off. I just wanted to go have fun with the guys. We talked about that."
No. What we talked about was him being on his best behavior. About him showing up, being present. Maybe even being a dad for once.
But he kept going, message after message.
"You know I don't like to babysit."
And when I didn't respond, the rage came back. Accusations. Denial. Trying to rewrite what happened. Claiming he wasn't going to hit my mom. When I had seen the way he clenched his fists. The way his whole body squared off like he was ready to throw one.
And no, he didn't just "walk away to cool off." He ran. Like a coward.
And while we're here, let's retire calling people "pussy" to mean weak or scared. Because that part of a woman's body is literal magic. It stretches, it bleeds, it births life. It survives. John didn't "pussy out." He cowarded out.
When the angry texts didn't work, they morphed again.
"I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't mean any of it. You know I love you. I just want to be your husband. I just want to be a good dad. I don't know why your family hates me."
He must have seen opened the messages, because the phone rang almost immediately.
I answered.
And he exploded.
He screamed at me. Called me names. Insulted me. Threatened me.
And here's the kicker: at least thirty members of my family were standing within earshot. Including my mom's sister and brother. And they heard every word.
He spiraled, ranting, gaslighting, re-spinning the story. Telling me nothing happened. That I was imagining things. That he was the victim. And when none of it landed, when he realized I wasn't bending, he collapsed into full-blown hysterical sobs.
"I just want to be part of your family. I've never been accepted. You should be my wife first. You should be at home with me."
And that was always the message, wasn't it?
I wasn't allowed to belong to anyone else. Not my sister. Not my parents. Not my child.
Just him. Always just him.
I stood there shaking, phone still in my hand like it might catch fire. Thirty pairs of eyes on me. And for once, I didn't shrink. I didn't apologize. I just breathed. Slow. Deep. Present.
When I told him I wasn't coming home, the tantrum leveled up. The sobs got louder, more theatrical—weaponized sorrow. Then came the next threat disguised as a plea:
"I'm coming there. I need to be with you. I want to be a family."
I told him no.
Flat-out, no.
I told him I didn't want him there. That my family didn't want him there. That we didn't need his drama, not today, not ever.
And those were the magic words—the ones that always set him off.
"Your family has always hated me! You're picking them over me! You always pick them over me!"
And yes. Yes, I did.
Because they were mine. My family, my people, my safety net. Of course I picked them. And the fact that he saw that as betrayal said everything.
I hung up. Done.
Or so I thought.