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[...] It was the season my blue-eyed, crooked-smiled, trusting husband was spending a fat wad of cash remodeling a house he believed he would die in, with me by his side. It was the season of accumulated dread from years of carefully parceling out sex I didn’t want to have, with a couple of glasses…

“I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about,” my father almost shouts at me now. I look at him, confused—even when we used to talk all the time, we didn’t talk like this. “I thought it would help you if you went out like the other girls, if you got a boyfriend. You seemed lonely. But I was a c…

If scrubbing my father’s blood can remove just the slightest bit of blood from my hands, I will do it forever, and nobody should be allowed to send me a meal train as consolation. I do not deserve a meal train. I don’t deserve anything.

When you hate yourself enough, there is a sharp tinge of sa…

[...] What used to feel like magic, like a shimmering gold of extended family and dreams come true, is gone, and instead I now essentially have five dependents and a husband I’m doing my best to avoid and yet still fuck approximately weekly so that he can’t point a clear finger at my negligence.

It is during my mother’s long exodus from our home that my new recurring dream begins. In this one, which I have nearly every night, almost every goddamn night for what will be the next three years, I confess my infidelity to my husband and we talk about all the experiences we have shared and all…