The heavens splintered the black night with lightning, and daytime ended on a heavy thunderclap. Typical for Southern weather. Her grandmother, Honey, said the skies changed moods like a woman during PMS – all sunny one minute and dark clouds the next.

“You always gotta be ready for anythin’, child. Put sunscreen on your face and an umbrella in your purse. Don’t let the devil catch ya wicha britches down.” Honey threaded any needle with Biblical principles, even the weather in North Georgia.

Thank goodness Honey couldn’t see her now.

Headlights and streetlights outlined the big oaks along the street she fell in love with on sight, miles away from their trailer park beginnings. The strong and sturdy trees seemed planted by Eve, but even their branches bent under the force of the coming storm.

She drove white-knuckled and chastised herself for being late yet again. She couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in her stomach as tardiness fueled anger.

How could she be so stupid?

Regina had rushed to her at the end of business, asking her to close the office because her daughter needed a ride from cheerleader practice. She agreed without even thinking. According to her husband, she never thought about him before her friends anyway. Not true, but nights like this made the argument for him.

The first time her husband hit her, she planted flowers in a chipped terra-cotta pot she had bought on discount at Big Lots. The pine flooring of their trailer deck lined her knees with wood-grain impressions; she arched her back occasionally to ease the knot forming at the center. Although loblolly pines scattered too many needles around the trailer, none shared their shade.

Summer had overtaken spring even though it was still weeks away on the calendar. The day collected at the bend of her arms and behind her knees. The wind chime she made in fourth-grade summer camp remained motionless. The whole world seemed to bow in surrender to the heat of the day.

He didn’t really hit her, not really. He didn’t punch or slap her in the face like the type in the movies that made her cringe. He only threw a milk jug. Well, not really threw it, more like shook it too hard. He said later, while apologizing, that the jug slipped from his hands while he proved a point. She believed him. Why wouldn’t she? At the time, she couldn’t imagine him throwing the jug on purpose.

He hit her more times since then, but she always asked for the punishment. If she could learn to control her tongue, their marriage would be straight out of the storybooks, not the horror show now played out. Yet here she was again, unable to get home on time to make the dinner she had planned the whole week.

The woman strained to see his car. Looked like she beat him home. An exhaled breath pushed her back into the seat.

Ridiculous. What’s the big deal? So she was a little late. She acted like he’s going to kill her or something. He would never hurt her on purpose.

On and on she rationalized the situation with the only person who knew of a problem – herself.

Reality and pretense often fit so tightly together she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. When reality tried to pull away, pretense yanked her closer and cloaked her in the anonymity of lies the outside world knew only as truth. The pounding heart inside her chest tonight served as a reminder that the weight of pretense remained burdensome, yet comfortable in familiarity.

Thank goodness she beat him home. She could marinate the steaks while she took a shower and the new negligee would distract him from the time. She hated showing that much skin outside the bedroom because of the extra pounds she cursed daily since marriage. But he liked the visual. 

She would pop the potatoes in the microwave rather than baking them. Broiled steaks would be fine if they couldn’t grill. Thoughts tumbled with the clouds of the coming storm. The first drop of rain hit the back of her head as she pulled the bags from the trunk.

She walked up the front walk, easier to see while carrying the cumbersome bags of groceries. She still managed to trip before the front steps, but corrected her balance. The constant falling down and bruising something created handy excuses in the past.

She shut the door with a foot, not bothering to turn on the hall light. She knew the way in the dark. The keys clinked on the small mahogany table in the foyer, and she headed to the kitchen while balancing one bag on her hip like a toddler, the other held by fingertips. Her steps were heavy and loud on the hardwood floors.

The blow caught her completely off guard.