I hadn’t been able to kick it from my mind. It was nagging at me like my mother when I didn’t cook something the way she liked it. Even though, between you and me, she just liked her food bland and I liked mine seasoned (you tell me whose right in that regard). But the words he said lingered on loop in my head.

“I don’t care if you weren’t ready. You could’ve gotten that job months ago. Why now? How selfish could you be? You have no motivation for anything.” He told me to take my time when I moved in. He told me to figure out what I really wanted to do. And I did. And now I have a plan. I told him that plan but if you ask him, I never considered him when I decided. It was only two months and I still paid for everything. I paid my own rent. I paid for my own groceries. I didn’t understand. I had no response.

“I do everything for us. I left my dream job for a new job that made me more money so I could provide for us while you sat here and twiddled your thumbs.” I didn’t ask him to do that. I’d never ask him to relinquish his happiness for the sake of something as small as me. He never mentioned that to me. Never asked me about it. I had a job by that point. I was never as financially concerned as he was despite him making significantly more money. I didn’t understand. I had no response.

“You don’t have any passions. You strive for nothing and you want for nothing. You are a lazy, selfish, heartless woman.” I do have passions. He’s seen my art and my love for it. And I do have goals. They just don’t match his and he didn’t like that. I want to be happy. I want a dog. That’s all I want. That’s all I need. I didn’t understand why this wasn’t good enough for him. I said that. He didn’t like it. Heartless? I loved him so much and I thought he knew that. I told him constantly. I used to dream for the weekends when I’d get to be in his arms. What happened? When did this switch flip? I wanted to find it and flip it back for him.

It felt like the world’s heavyweight champion was sitting on me and refusing to get off. It was so confusing to me. My head was spinning, my eyes were burning, and my throat was closing. I couldn’t think about anything but his words. About his loud voice and his tone and his hand smacking against the door and the mirror and the dining table. About his finger in my face and his slurring words. I’d had enough. I couldn’t keep it inside, bottled up anymore. The bottle was full and damn near exploding. It needed to come out. I needed to release it.

So I called my mom and, oh boy, should I have pulled over. It was nothing I was ready to hear but everything I needed to.

“Hi beautiful!” She always answered the phone like that when I called. It’s tattooed over my heart.

My words lodged in my throat. And the first tear rolled down my cheek.

“Momma,” I whispered. It could just barely slip through.

“Honey? What’s wrong? What happened?” Worry laced every word through the phone. I could hear the slap of a pen dropping to a counter.

I broke then. My mother’s voice always cracked me open in a way no one else’s ever could. Not even his. Four years of my life and he never made me feel safe enough to break. Never felt like he’d help me pick up the pieces.

“I-I..” I sobbed. “Adam and I had a fight and…” To her credit, she waited patiently. Out of character for her, really.

“About what? What did he do?” The worry became entwined with an edge that made even me tense. Suddenly, I understood everyone’s intimidation. I picked up the subtle wrath and something in me felt I needed to bow to it.

I was silent for too long and she didn’t like it. “Bella Rose, I swear, if you do not tell me what that man did I will drive up there and beat his ass so bad you will have to call an ambulance. Now, spill.”

Most mothers would be consoling, right? Sweet and soft spoken to someone they feel could be the least bit fragile. And while, sometimes, I wish she’d have that, I’m grateful she didn’t for this.

I spilled everything. Every word he’d yelled at me. Every tone he took. Every motion he made.

And after each one she scoffed as if her fondness of him turned to complete disgust with one phone call. Then it was her turn to be silent for too long.

“And what did you say to him? Tell me you fought back.” She sounded tense like it was taking every ounce of her strength to not flip her desk over.

“No, I couldn’t think of how to. I didn’t want to make him worse.” I explained. “He said he was doing it for me and for us. Isn’t that a good thing? I know he yelled at me and slammed things but it was for the sake of our relationship. It’s a tough love thing—”

“Stop.” She interrupted. “Stop. Right. There.”

I damn near slammed on my car brakes. And would have had I not known better. In hindsight, maybe I should have waited until I was parked to call her.

“I have been married to your father for 27 years and not once has he said anything even remotely close to what Adam said to you. Never has he slammed things in front of me or because of me. Never. Nor I to him.” Her voice has softened slightly but still that sharpness sat waiting to strike. “You do not deserve that. What he is doing is throwing his insecurities in your face and blaming you. That is never okay. And, clearly, he does not know you if he thinks those things. **You are sweet. You are kind. You are giving. And you are sensitive.** You get that from your father. I am your mother so you know what tough love looks like. Have either of us said anything like that to you? Your soft side might be from your father but you are also my daughter. You do not let that bullshit slide. Do you hear me? You go up to that apartment and you lay down that boundary. You tell him that is the last time he says and does those things to you or you leave. And if he does it again, you do not justify it. You call me and you leave. And so help me, God, if you stay, I will come drag you out of that apartment by the ear. No man would ever intimidate and make you feel unworthy of him. No real man. And he is clearly still a boy. You call me afterwards, alright? At the very least you text me that you’re okay.”

She was right. I knew tough love. She was tough love but I still never feared her. Never had she made me wonder if she loved me or blamed me for her feelings. Talking with her somehow felt like a smack in the face and a warm hug. It was what I needed.

I did listen to her partially. I laid down my boundary. He apologized and blamed it on his drinking. He told me he was working on himself and I believed him. Only, it wasn’t the last time. And he didn’t stop drinking. And he didn’t make any improvements. And I didn’t leave the next handful of times after. Perhaps it took a while before her words really reached me. Maybe it was love I thought I was deserving of at the time. Most likely, they were words I didn’t want to hear so I brushed them off as dramatic. I thought it was a problem that would resolve with one conversation.

It got worse. Doesn’t it always? I wanted to trust him, to believe him. However, he never showed me that I should. I never knew which version of him I was returning home to. And that anxiety got to me. That fear ate me away. I looked different in the mirror. Tired. Heartbroken. I did leave, eventually. Months later after the damage was done. I called my mom one night. And she lived up to her word. My parents took zero time helping me move in a days notice. My dad, with a bum knee, walked up and down four flights of stairs with the heaviest boxes countless times moving me out. They both never once hesitated and never once complained.

I might be on my own now but my mother’s words ring through my brain with every date I go on. My boundary is there and holding strong. I will not let it cave, again. I’m her daughter. I should live up to it. Although, I am never gonna stop seasoning my food.