You live a life of fear.
You wake up early every morning and slip out of bed, carefully, so you don't wake him, and then you work while he sleeps, still, in the bed that's too low in the house that he never wanted that's paid for with your money because he hasn't had a job since your first daughter was born.
You tiptoe through your life, checking, double-checking to make sure you've dotted every i and crossed every t, making sure you have your story straight with both of your daughters so that everything is airtight, no room for him to get angry. But your daughters, they're human too, and they make mistakes too, and even when they don't, he still finds things to get pissed off at, except he doesn't come out and say something at the time, he lets it build up and fester in his mind for days and days until it explodes, usually when he's at least partly drunk, and then you try so hard to calm him down, but it's difficult, and it's unfair, and you've been working on this for over twenty years.
And some days are good days, and he's happy (or at least happier), and you see him smile and you remember why you fell in love with him. Why you still love him.
And then there are the bad days, the days when all three of you -- used to be four, before your older daughter went to college -- are involved in the fight, and your younger daughter is trying to help but she's only seventeen and there's only so much she can do, and eventually the goal is just not to get hit, to get him to fall asleep without hitting you or her.
If anyone knew, they might ask, why do you stay? You stay for your girls, your daughters, the most precious things in your life. You would do anything for them, and they sometimes take advantage of that, because they're human, but they try, too, they try to help you, because they love you with everything they have.
You live a life of fear.
