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Around noon, my husband came home from work. As he walked towards me, I couldn’t help but tremble when he raised his hand.
I heard him sneer. Forcing myself to overcome my fear, I glanced up at him.
His face wore a smug, triumphant expression at seeing me shudder in fear of him.
“Hehe, I’m not going to hit you,” he said.
My husband was clearly in a better mood. He patted my head like I was a dog.
In his eyes, I was probably no different from a dog that could be abused at will.
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What did it matter if I was battered and bruised? He didn’t have to pay any price for it.
The second time he abused me, I called the police. That was the first time he kicked me in the stomach. The police came, but since there was no substantial injury, they just advised us a bit, criticized my husband, and left.
My husband seemed to have gotten a taste for it, knowing he could hit me without consequences.
He even searched online about domestic violence and looked for posts about abuse on forums.
After learning that as long as he didn’t kill or permanently injure me, domestic violence was considered a family matter that even the police wouldn’t interfere with, he began to test his limits step by step.
At first, whenever he was in a slightly bad mood, or if I wasn’t paying attention, he would slap me across the face at any time.
People who have never been slapped by a man may not be able to imagine how heavy their hands can be.
One slap to the face makes your head buzz, the pain numbing you for several seconds before half your face swells up red.
My husband’s limits escalated from slapping to choking me, kicking my stomach, twisting my arms.
I fought back once. The most extreme time, when he was hitting me, our daughter came to protect me and he accidentally kicked her. I went crazy and started scratching and biting him.
He knocked me out cold with one punch to the head. After that, he seemed to think my life was worthless and his beatings became more and more vicious.
The natural physical difference between women and men meant I couldn’t even fight off one of his hands.
“What are you thinking about? What, still want to go to the police station to report me?”
Seeing my expression change, my husband immediately grabbed my hair tightly. He raised an eyebrow and taunted me contemptuously.
“I’m sorry, honey. Don’t be angry. I made the pork rib soup you love.”
I endured the pain and forced myself to look up with an obedient smile. My husband snorted and told me to go serve the soup.
At the dinner table, I picked out the best ribs for my husband’s bowl and ladled a bowl for my mother–in–law:
“Let the money–losing burden gnaw on the bones.”
In front of my husband and mother–in–law, I gave my daughter a piece of bone with very little meat.
My daughter’s eyes filled with tears but she didn’t dare make a sound. I ladled myself a bowl of soup with no meat, just some vegetables.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother–in–law give me an approving look. In the past, I always protected my daughter and went against her. Now she saw that I had finally “learned my place.”
My husband, on the other hand, looked at me with some surprise for a while before picking up his chopsticks like a lord.
I stood by like a servant, serving them dishes.
That night, my husband pressed himself on top of me. I controlled my facial expression and actively put my arms around his neck.
“Mom said we should have a son soon…”
My husband’s touch made me nauseous. He touched the place where he had broken my ribs and pressed down hard.
“Ow!”
My face contorted in pain, but my husband just laughed at my suffering expression,
taking i82 Ware meto
carry for you?”
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