My husband controls and abuses me every day. One morning, I collapse. He rushes me to the hospital, playing the role of the perfect worried husband:
“She fell down the stairs.” But he doesn’t expect the doctor to notice the signs only a trained eye would recognize. The doctor doesn’t ask me a single question—he looks straight at him and calls security:
For three years, I live a life that, from the outside, looks completely normal. My husband, Mark, and I own a small house in a quiet suburban neighborhood outside Denver, Colorado, the kind of place where neighbors wave just because you walk your dog past their driveway. Continue reading…
