20
I spent Saturday night on the living room floor. Peter had gone to bed after kicking me with his dirty boots as he passed, and I made no move to follow. Only once certain he’d fallen asleep did I stir. If not for the need to use the bathroom, I may not have bothered at all.
Peter and I spent the entire Sunday in the house, which turned out to be pretty horrendous, also. At lunchtime, he dragged me into the kitchen, stood me before the cooker, and snapped, “Make my f*****g dinner, like a proper wife.”
When I moved to the fridge, his hand took my head and shoved. I cried out on collision with the door as pain shot through what I presumed to be a black eye. When I grabbed the pork and turned, he spat at me—for the fifth time since he’d ventured downstairs. I did nothing other than wipe
