You're late. Again," I said as I glared at my husband, Art.
"I'm sorry. Traffic was a nightmare."
Not the traffic excuse again, I fumed as I filled Art's plate and slapped it onto the table. We'd been married only two months, but the honeymoon phase was definitely over—in fact, it had never existed.
I forced myself to eat despite the tension crackling between us. As Art took a bite, I was sure I saw an odd expression cross his face.
"What's wrong?" I demanded.
He frowned. "Nothing!"
"You made a funny face. You don't like it, do you? You hate my cooking!" And you hate me, I mentally added.
Art slammed down his fork. "What is wrong with you? You're behaving like a nutcase! You overreact to everything, and it's driving me crazy!"
His words cut me to the bone. "If you were a better husband and loved me more, I wouldn't be so emotional!" I lashed out in retaliation.
We both stormed from the table, leaving the food to grow as cold as the feelings between us.
I don't love him anymore, I thought later as I lay stiffly beside him in bed. I don't even like him. What's happened to us?
But I knew.
A terrible choice
Growing up in a broken home, I'd been rejected by my biological father, who constantly told me he'd never wanted children. I just longed to be loved and accepted.1