13 Years of Bruises and Hope

She still believes the man who used to treat her like royalty will come back despite what he did this morning

Lisa, 41, sits quietly on the edge of her worn couch in Atlanta. The door slammed behind him 40 minutes ago. He’s off to work, radio blaring in his old Altima like it’s just another day. For him, it probably is.

For her, it’s another day of recovery. Her lip is split. Her ribs ache from where he shoved her into the bathroom doorframe. She walks stiffly, favoring one side, like an old sports injury flaring up. That’s what she’ll say if anyone notices. “Old pulled muscle.” “Tripped over my cat.” She’s got a rotation of excuses ready, seasoned from years of practice.

This morning’s incident started over something so small, it almost feels laughable now. She forgot to remind him to call his friend Mike back last night. Just a reminder about $15 gas money. But he’d gone to bed stewing, woke up searching for fuel, and found it in her silence. That’s all it took.

He used to be different. That’s the thought that clings to her like perfume from another lifetime. He used to make her laugh until her stomach hurt. He’d write her little love notes on napkins, text her good morning even if she was still lying next to him. On her birthday one year, he gave her a handwritten letter that said, “You make this life feel like peace.”

Somewhere between the layoffs, the drinking, and the pressure of “being a man,” that version of him disappeared. Now, she walks on eggshells in her own home. She calls it stress. She calls it miscommunication. She tells herself “every couple has their fights.”

But deep down, some small part of her knows the truth. It’s not just stress. It’s not love expressed the wrong way. It’s not her fault that he throws things. It’s not her job to fix a man who only sees her as his punching bag when life frustrates him.

And yet…

She clutches her old iPhone and scrolls back through pictures smiling beach selfies, anniversary dinners, the two of them in matching Falcons jerseys. She can still hear his laugh in those photos. She wants to believe he’s still in there. Buried. Dormant. Waiting for a reason to rise again.

Her friends used to warn her. Her mom even offered her a spare room. But now, the phone barely rings. No one wants to repeat advice she refuses to hear.

The bruises will fade by Sunday. She’ll wear long sleeves, maybe sunglasses if the swelling stays too long. She’ll cook his favorite dinner tonight and hope he compliments it. Maybe tonight he’ll smile. Maybe he’ll reach for her hand again like he used to.

She whispers to the silence, “He’s just going through something. He’ll get better. He has to.”

And for now, she waits. Bruised, bent but still hoping.