As we approached fifteen years of marriage, he got meaner and meaner; he grew more and more critical of me. He made me feel like there was something wrong with me; like I was “less than.”
When we took the kids out to eat, he would wait for me to order, he wouldn’t say anything until the food arrived. Just as I put the fork to my mouth he would say it. “Should you really be eating that? Do you know how many calories are in that?”
Every time, and yet I didn’t expect it. When those words came out it was crushing. I would fight the tears and nibble on my salad, not touching the rest of it.
I thought there was something wrong with me. It wasn’t until much later that I realized it was him, not me.
This is in response to a prompt on The Daily Post, to use the word “fork” for a post.