I started dating his father, Michael, when we were still in high school, and I absolutely adored him. I loved that he was so strong and protective, not to mention devastatingly handsome. He came from a good home and was extremely close to his parents which I loved…at the time. I felt safe wrapped up in his arms, thinking that our love for each other would be enough to see us through anything. Back then, I really thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. Unfortunately, the thing that I loved the most about him ended up being the very thing that scared me the most about him. Over time he became controlling and jealous to the point that I felt suffocated by him. I was nearly paralyzed by my inability to make a move without his approval. If I didn’t do things the way he expected me to, he’d get angry, so very angry. His temper was a force to be reckoned with. When he snapped, I didn’t know how to protect myself from his wrath. I’d tried everything from talking him down with reason to silently enduring it. Nothing worked. I’d known about the fights he’d had at bars and various other places when his temper got out of hand, but I never thought that he’d be like that with me. The first time I saw the flash of rage that crossed his face was directed at me, I was stunned. I wasn’t expecting him to be thrilled that I had gotten pregnant so early in our marriage, but his intense anger caught me completely off guard. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when he reared back his closed fist and slammed it into the side of my head. It was like he wasn’t even the same person. That beating was so bad the doctor was surprised that I didn’t miscarry.
Michael cried for days afterwards, pleading with me to forgive him. He promised—he swore to me—that it would never happen again. Michael said he would do whatever it took to make our baby happy. I hadn’t even finished college yet. If I left him, I would end up moving in with my parents and raising my child without a father. Truthfully, I loved my husband, and I wanted – no, I needed – to believe him. I had to trust him when he said he would take care of us and give us the life he’d promised. Even though I was only a few months pregnant, my child had already become the most important thing in the world to me. It’s one of the reasons I named my son Wyatt, my little warrior. At the time, I had no idea how much the meaning of that name truly suited him.
In reflection, I should’ve left Michael that night and never looked back. I honestly thought the incident would be a one time thing. I told myself that the shock and stress from the news of my unexpected pregnancy had just completely overwhelmed him and caused him to totally flip out. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The attacks were sporadic but effective. I never knew what was going to set him off, and over time, I became a different person. I hated that I didn’t stand up for myself more, demand that he treat me better, but the fear was just so all consuming. I eventually learned to do whatever I could to make him happy, always trying my best to keep the peace. I was finally learning to deal with Michael and his temper, but when we found out about Wyatt, things got worse.
As Wyatt got a little older, I became worried that he wasn’t talking like most of the children his age. When I finally took him to be tested, they informed us that he had Asperger’s Syndrome, a form of autism that causes some children to have trouble with social interactions, and they often exhibit a restricted range of interests and repetitive behaviors. It was a heartbreaking discovery, but I still managed to remain hopeful. Wyatt was a wonderful little boy, and I loved him just the way he was. Unfortunately, Michael hated that his son was different. Image was everything to Michael. He was fixated on us appearing as the perfect all-American family, especially to his parents, and he blamed me for Wyatt’s delays. Ultimately, I ended up in the hospital for five days with three cracked ribs, a broken wrist and slight head trauma, all due to his frustration with our son. That night changed everything. I was done trying to make things work with an abusive husband. I gathered up all the courage I could muster, and I pressed charges against him. It’s one of the reasons he now has supervised visitation with Wyatt and had to attend anger management classes for a year. The classes seemed to be helping him, but they didn’t make me feel any better about sending Wyatt over there. I just don’t trust Michael, but in the end, the courts left me no choice.
When Wyatt caught me staring at him, he asked, “So, are you going to make nuggets?”
“Yeah, I’ll make chicken nuggets, but you’re going to have to eat some vegetables, too,” I told him as I headed towards the kitchen.
Wyatt reached for his backpack and followed me, tossing his things on the floor by the table. “Okay, but no broccoli. I hate broccoli. And I got a one hundred on my math test today,” he told me, pulling his books out and placing them on the kitchen table.
“That’s great, buddy, but I’m not surprised. You always do well in math.”
“It’s my favorite,” he confessed.
“I know. It was always mine, too. Since you did so well, you can have a few extra minutes on your game after dinner.”
As usual, I got no response. He knew he earned extra time on his game when he made good grades, so after dinner, he curled up in his favorite spot and finished creating his new world. When he was done, he headed for the shower without being told. I searched through his drawers looking for his favorite pajamas and laid them on his dresser. I sat down on the edge of his bed and waited for him to finish up in the bathroom. The shower turned off and seconds later I heard Wyatt’s wet little feet slap against the hardwood floor as he headed down the hall. He stopped at the doorway and stared at me with one towel wrapped around his waist and another around his head.
“What’s up, Buddy?” I asked.