My beloved husband,
I hope this letter finds you well.
This past few days I’ve been thinking a lot; about everything. The life I have lived so far, and the life I hope to have in future. I contemplated seeking a professional’s help so I can put all this into perspective, but turns out I did good just on my own. As I find writing very therapeutic, I figured I could write to you because my final discoveries wouldn’t be of any use if I didn’t share them with you. So here goes:
Every little girl has a dream; an idea of the kind of man she would wish to spend forever with. Most wish their shining knight will be the life version of Barbie’s Ken, or one of those charming men from the numerous fairy tales. After reading too many of those stories and watching movies of them, they hope for grand weddings. In most cases, the average girl’s ideal husband is Mr tall, dark and handsome, as the cliché goes. Well, I can’t fault them because I was one of those girls.
However, as I’m growing up, I’m slowly realizing the stories we read in books are so different from real life happenings. When writers are writing the books, they omit some very crucial details, for fear of planting bad seeds in infantile minds. I’ve read some original versions of these fairy tales children love so much, and honestly they are a bit depressing. So I understand why.
Some of those omissions are the fact that Mr tall, dark and handsome may be an alcoholic, a pathological liar, a wife beater, or a serial killer, or a paedophile… I could only think of so many nasty things. Point is, young girls look at the physical attributes of their potential husbands/partners, but now I know that is myopia at its best; and how do I know that, you ask?
It’s simple; my father is a very handsome man (and I say this with absolute filial love), he is tall and dark and earns a six figure salary. In my books that’s the perfect definition of prince charming. Sadly, I have never known a more miserable woman than my mother. Everytime I look at her I sympathize with her; I wonder if this is the happily-ever-after she signed up for. Judging by the high levels of misery she’s enshrouded in, I doubt she ever contemplated the life she is living now. No one in their right mind would.
Love, they say, conquers all; but guess what, sometimes love could sink someone. Ask my mother. She will give you a litany of the suffering and privation she’s put up with in the name of love. I will say it from my perspective though.
Growing up, my two sisters and I went hungry a lot. Most of the times we survived on one meal a day. That’s not a big deal though, because I know there are people who don’t eat at all. Problem is, while we were going without food, my father was club hopping, spending whatever money he had on booze and roasted meat.
My baby sister, who was a little young at the time when we started realizing what was happening, would tell mom, “He smells of meat and beer.” She was around four years old. When walking on the streets, her tiny hand in mom’s, she would see a man loading shopping bags in the trunk of his car then she would look up at mom and ask, “Mom, can’t we get another dad?”
I understood why she asked that. We envied the lives normal families had. A life where the father would lovingly teach his kids how to ride bikes, buy them small gifts for small achievements… I know this could sound like we hoped for too much, but it was only because we were aware our father could afford it.
Mom wanted for us to have this life, but she’d been rendered financially helpless when she quit her job. When she got pregnant with me, she was working as a chef in a five-star hotel, and when she went on maternity leave, she never went back. Dad had requested her to become a housewife and gullibly she had accepted.
That however, (in my opinion) was one of the worst mistakes of her life; because ever since, she was subjected to his mercy. He only bought food when he deemed it fit, which was rare, so mom had to run some small businesses that didn’t flourish so she could feed us. She suffered so much, and we struggled a lot, but somehow we managed. It was hard.
Then in the midst of all that came violence. Mom’s tall, dark and handsome man, became an incorrigible wife beater. Sometimes I would go to school crying because shortly before I left home I would witness him hitting her.
Ever since I was small, I understood the importance of keeping the family’s dirty laundry away from the public’s eye, so I never told anyone. Except this one time; it was too much to hold in, so I talked to my class teacher. I was eight then, but the teacher didn’t do much; just the usual pep talk to help me get through the day. In the late afternoon I went back home after school, to my warring parents.