This chapter contains descriptions of domestic violence, physical assault during pregnancy, verbal abuse, threats of harm, and police involvement. It includes depictions of choking and emotional trauma witnessed by minors.
Please read with care. Your safety and well-being come first.
In October, we moved from one house on base to another. Our old place was being torn down, so we were upgraded to something slightly bigger, an extra bathroom, a little more space, the illusion of progress.
The day of the move, my entire family showed up to help. I was pregnant, exhausted, and emotionally running on fumes. John? Refused to get off the couch. The only things he packed were his Xbox and a small tote of his personal things. That was it. Everything else, the furniture, the dishes, the clothes, the baby stuff, I was left to pack alone.
By the time my family arrived, I had maybe half the house boxed up. I think they were a little disappointed at first, seeing how much was left, but it didn't take long for my mom to catch on. She realized quickly that I'd done everything I could with the week's notice we were given, and that John hadn't lifted a single finger.
It took three full trailer loads to move our stuff. Just half a mile across base. My dad's trailer was massive, but the amount of crap we had was overwhelming. My family arrived at 8 a.m. They didn't leave until 7 that evening. It was a long, grueling day.
By the time we got to the new house, I was done. My body ached. I was nauseous, hungry, and completely worn out. My youngest sister Lynn and my brother Ryan asked if they could stay the night, and I told them yes. Honestly, I was just relieved I wouldn't be alone.
I ordered pizza. We ate on the floor, surrounded by boxes. I could barely keep my eyes open.
After dinner, I took a quick shower, crawled into bed, and gave myself permission to rest. Lynn climbed into bed with me. John always slept on the couch anyway, so it wasn't unusual. She and I curled up under the blankets, both of us bone-tired, ready to crash.
John and Ryan decided they were going to set up the living room and play video games. Fine. Whatever. I was in bed, out of the way, letting them do their thing.
But then John came storming into the bedroom.
"You need to get your lazy ass out of bed," he snapped. "I need help setting up the living room. Now."
I just stared at him.
I was stunned. Furious.
"No," I said. "I'm not getting out of bed. I'm tired. I've been working all day. You've done nothing."
He didn't like that.
"If you don't get out of bed, I'll throw you out of it," he growled.
I didn't move. Neither did Lynn. She was wide-eyed beside me, silent but clearly just as stunned.
"I'm not getting up," I said again, voice flat and final.
He told me I had five minutes to get out of bed and get ready, or he'd be back.
I didn't care. I was exhausted, pregnant, and had been working nonstop all day. I got up, turned off the light, climbed back under the blankets, and went to sleep.
Exactly five minutes later, he came back— raging.
He slammed the door open, flipped the lights on, and started screaming.
"GET OUT OF BED! GET YOUR LAZY ASS UP!"
I didn't move. I didn't even know what to say. I just laid there, stunned, tired beyond reason.
He kept yelling, and eventually, I started yelling back. I told him I wasn't getting up. That I was exhausted. That I had worked all day while he did nothing. I kept repeating it like a lifeline, like if I said it enough times, he might hear it.
By then, Lynn had gotten out of bed. Ryan was standing behind John, watching silently from the hallway.
And then John lost it.
He rushed the bed and flipped the mattress, with me still on it. I hit the floor hard, landing on my stomach with a heavy thud. My breath rushed out of me, and before I could get up, he was standing over me, still screaming.
He yanked me up by my arm and shoulder, not helping, not steadying, ripping me off the ground. It hurt. My shoulder screamed. I cried out.
"SHUT UP!" he roared. "You did this to yourself! If you'd just gotten out of bed when I told you, I wouldn't have had to do this! It's your fault I lost my temper! This is YOUR fault!"
I don't remember exactly what I said in response. I think I tried to defend myself, tried to explain. But it didn't matter.
He slammed me up against the wall and shoved his forearm across my throat, choking me.
Lynn was screaming. Ryan stood frozen for half a second, then started punching John from behind, trying to get him off me.
Lynn grabbed my phone and called my mom.
They were kids too. And that night changed them.
My mom called Brad, a family friend on base. A cop.
While all that was happening, John still had me pinned, screaming in my face, cursing, slamming his fist into the wall beside my head.
He had no idea the police were on their way.
So when the knock came, when the door opened, and John suddenly smiled and calmly answered it like nothing had happened, I wanted to throw up.
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The cops took everyone's statements. I remember one of them pulling me aside and saying, "If you decide to pursue legal action, it'll ruin his career."
As if that was supposed to matter more than what he'd just done to me. As if I was supposed to care about his job more than the hand he wrapped around my neck.
They told us we couldn't stay together that night. That it wasn't safe. So I packed up what I needed and left, with Ryan, Lynn, my son, and my dog. Because yes, even after all that, John still tried to keep our son.
But I looked the officer dead in the eye and said,
"I am not leaving my child in that house."
So we drove across town to my sister Marie's apartment, tiny, cramped, but safe. She and her husband Rim let us all crash there. I was still shaking. Still seething. Still holding back tears that burned like acid in my throat.
I didn't want to go back.
I was done.
I stayed at Marie's for a few days. Let the silence grow thick. Let my anger breathe.
And then…John showed up.
With flowers. With tears. With that fake, broken voice he always used when he wanted to reset the damage without actually fixing it.
He handed me a paper from base, a write-up. He had been ordered to attend anger management. We had to go to marriage counseling.
He was so sorry.
He said he was going to be a new man. A better husband. A good dad. He would do whatever it took to keep his family together.
"I'm nothing without you."
"Please don't give up on me."
"This will never happen again."
And I bought it.
Hook, line, and sinker.
Because I wanted to believe him. Because I wanted to believe that love could fix broken things. Because I thought if someone was willing to change, that meant they would.
But I didn't understand yet, apologies are not redemption. Promises are not proof. And flowers don't erase bruises.