I can’t believe our vacation has come down to this. We’d been planning this getaway for so long. We were both excited to spend a few days away from the madness of Los Angeles in favor of the more low-key Albuquerque, a place we both love. Brad had a speaking engagement at a conference, and he told me I should go with him.

We’d make a vacation out of it and spend some quality time together, he’d said.

Our trip had a few good moments, but those didn’t counterbalance everything that had gone wrong. It’s true that my husband’s job as an attorney at a law firm made him stress-prone, but as far as I knew there was nothing going on at the moment that would justify his overly moody behavior our entire time in Albuquerque.

There you go again, making excuses for him, I thought, berating myself.

The entire vacation he’d peppered me with mocking jabs, corroborating my confusion about our precarious marriage.

So many things went wrong this weekend, but if I had to pinpoint the exact moment when I feared our marriage had gone adrift and I shouldn’t take it anymore, it was when he berated me for what I had chosen to wear on our night out around town. I came out of the hotel bathroom wearing an elegant maxi-dress that highlighted my best assets, and makeup that made my features look even more exotic. It had taken time, but I’d finally mastered the art of eyeliner at the ripe age of thirty-one. Furthermore, the bronzer my friend Lily recommended smelled divine and made me feel like one of those pretty girls on Instagram. I’m not one of those women who required showering with compliments, but every once in a while, I’d like to hear a compliment or two from my husband. Instead, when Brad saw me dressed up, he told me I looked stupid.

According to him, my outfit was too dressy for our night out, and I was going to look ridiculous walking into the places we intended to go. Because of his job, Brad was a sharp dresser during business hours, but as soon as he was off the clock, he was all about his expensive, trendy casualwear. I, on the other end, worked from home, and I usually looked forward to any occasion to dress up and feel good about myself.

That night, he’d decided to wear his perfectly calculated hipster outfit of distressed tee, white shorts, and expensive limited-edition Nike Air Jordans.

However, in his opinion, I was the one who was going to look ridiculous, not him.

Not hot, or beautiful, or even overdressed. Ridiculous. The word still stung days later.

If I was ridiculous in my favorite summer breezy dress, so be it. Brad was capable of poisoning my mood like no one else, but he couldn’t succeed when it came to something like good taste and style, which I knew I possessed—something I’d inherited from my mother. We didn’t have much growing up, but my mother always managed to look stylish even with inexpensive clothes and jewelry.

I was so pissed he had the nerve to tell me I looked ridiculous that when he kept criticizing my choice of dress, I didn’t back down.

I always expressed myself through fashion, even before we became an item. His judgment or vision of how I should act or dress didn’t faze me much. I wasn’t ever going to be one of those wives who become the perfect accessory for their husband and their career. It bothered me that my husband saw my style choices as something to ridicule. When I made it clear that I was still going to wear the dress I’d chosen, he asked why I wouldn’t wear something more casual, like shorts. I told him I didn’t wear shorts and when he asked why again, I explained it was because I didn’t like how my legs looked.

“Then why don’t you do something about it?” was the remark of my average-build husband of seven years. I couldn’t recall if he’d ever said something as hurtful. Maybe not since he’d called me fat years ago, but then apologized later saying he didn’t mean it, the way he always did.

He never meant any of the cruel things he’d said over the years.

Sure, I would have looked better with fewer pounds, but I knew better than to treat myself too harshly. On a good day, I could appreciate my rounder hips and my plump backside that didn’t require any painful injections at a plastic surgeon’s office. I knew I was sexy, even with a few extra pounds, and no amount of cruel words from my husband could make me think otherwise.

Yet, here I was, stuck in a marriage with someone who didn’t seem to appreciate me all that much. Why?

I always thought my husband loved me just the way I was, I thought he loved me because I was different, but maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe he saw the flaws and didn’t say anything because he knew I wouldn’t take it well, just as he didn’t take it well the few times I suggested he could use Rogaine to increase his hair growth. “I’m not losing my hair,” he’d rebuked at the time in a defensive tone. Now thirty-five, his hairline was receding. Not by a lot, but I could tell, especially if I compared it to the pictures of when we first started going out. He’d lost the youthful glow he had when we met. He was barely twenty-seven years old at the time, and I was twenty-three, living through the worst time of my life as my mother was dying of lung cancer. We’d met through mutual friends and I liked that he was a responsible adult with a good dose of ambition.

I probably appreciated it more back then. I admired it. After my mother got sick, I’d lost all my creative drive and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to paint or even worry about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I’d already lost my dad. My mother was all I had left. Focusing on her recovery was my priority—everything else could wait.

When I met Brad, I appreciated that he had dreams, goals, five- and ten-year plans, almost like an annoying sorority girl. I, on the other hand, had been confronted with the reality that too often you can’t control life, even when you’re dead set on reaching your goals. At the time, I appreciated his focus, but right now I can’t help but wonder if it was really ambition that I saw in him back then or if it was arrogance instead. A few times I’ve felt like one of his projects, and his frequent comments about the things I should change about myself come to mind.

You don’t have to stay, Ines.

I try to count in my head how many times we’ve gone down this road. How many times did he insult me during an argument? How many times did he apologize and say he didn’t mean it?

Too many to count.

I’m the sucker who always forgave him—the one who didn’t want to give up—but every little fight, every criticism still stung like thorns prickling my skin.

I stare at my burger once more, bracing for his fury to explode all over this unsuspecting burger joint. A couple of days ago, when he criticized what I was wearing, I was hurt by the lack of respect, and felt that the end was near. As more arguments followed, I realized I had no love left for him.

Time and time again, he jumped to criticize anything I did. We fought about me calling an Uber too soon, about my incompetence in locking the rental bike. Every other thing I did ignited an argument. On top of that, we had a fight about him trying to monopolize any free time we had.

Why do I even keep trying to make our marriage work? I had been fine on my own before Brad, and I knew I would be just fine without him. Divorce is certainly not stigmatized in America. We simply had to accept we weren’t much different than the millions of incompatible couples who decided to split up.

Part of me knew I stayed in this relationship for as long as I had because our whirlwind romance resulted with an elopement a year after we’d started dating. We’d gotten married when I was young and naïve, still rather inexperienced about love, and I stubbornly didn’t want to give up.

I wanted to make it work. Love conquers all and all that bullshit.

Part of me wanted to stay married because of my parents. I idolized their bond and relationship. My parents were still married when my father passed, and my mother never remarried after she lost him.  I always thought Brad and I would eventually become more like them, but we never morphed into the type of married couple my parents were.

Brad never called me his beautiful wife. He rarely complimented me. I was never greeted with a “Good morning, sweetheart,” or “Buenos días, mi amor” the way my father used to say to my mother every morning. I always longed for the day my husband would call me that. For my part, I never felt loved enough to dote on him in person or across social media as some couples did. Simply put, there wasn’t much to dote about.  But I knew that relationships required work, so I’d stayed, and kept trying to be a better wife.

Over the years, I learned how not to get him riled up during an argument, and when it was best to bite my tongue. Compromise seemed to be one of the core requirements of marriage, and over time, I began overlooking all the little things that bothered me.

#Maybehedoesnthityou but you can’t express yourself for fear of making him too angry. His anger, ready to ignite any time, was my major issue.

His complete disinterest when it came to taking care of the house was the second.

I could have tolerated Brad’s shortcomings if he’d treated me the way he promised when we got married. Instead, I felt that no matter how much I tried to take care of him and do my best, what I did was never enough.

“You’re not serious. We’re leaving tonight. Our flight is in exactly two hours. Why do you want to mess with me like this, huh?” he asks, raising his voice once more. I can see from the corner of my eye a few heads turn, and my cheeks redden, embarrassed.

“I don’t want to cause a scene,” I tell him.

“Then what do you think you’re doing saying something like this? You’re trying to piss me off on purpose! You should have kept your mouth shut!” He tries to rein in the volume, but not the anger in his voice, and he slams his hand on the table.

I fear that if I get in a car with him now, I’ll regret that decision.

He’s never physically abused me before, but something in my gut tells me that if I get in the car with him, this will be the time he’ll do it. Something about him is different.

Could it be because he hasn’t been smoking pot since we’ve been traveling?

“Brad, I’m not trying to mess with you. I feel…I feel like this entire weekend was a disaster. I need some time to think things over. I don’t think this is working out. I could change my flight, come home in a few days.” Or not come back at all.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t think this getaway turned out the way we had hoped. I’m sure you’ve noticed it, too. Maybe I need to be on my own for a while.”

“You want a divorce,” he states, matter-of-factly.

“Maybe. I don’t know. We’re not in a good place,” I whisper, trying to downplay the implications of his words.

“You think we’re not in a good place,” he repeats, eyes wild. “You’re insane if you think you’re going to make it without me.”

#Maybehedoesnthityou but he tries to make you believe you’re nothing without him.

“I just need a little time. You know I can pretty much work anywhere. Maybe I could stay out here a few weeks, find a place to stay and work through…whatever this is.”

Obviously, we should try to work through our crisis in LA, but I’ve never felt the need to put a few miles between the two of us as strongly as I do now. For some inexplicable reason, the more I think about staying, the more I feel in my heart and in the pit of my stomach that I’m making the right decision.

I don’t need him. I can do this.

I told him I’m not completely sure about splitting up, but I’m lying. I don’t think we’ll ever find common ground. We’re just not a good fit for each other.

We’re not good together. Maybe we never were, and I’ve just been lying to myself all these years.

He shakes his head in disbelief, opening his mouth to say something, but then he shuts it again. I’m afraid of what he’s going to say, and I’m afraid of what he’s capable of doing when he’s this angry. He calls for our waiter and hands him his credit card. The waiter scurries away and I’m alone with him again.

“Go get in the car,” he orders.

A part of me suggests I do as he says, but my body is heavy, and a stronger, more stubborn part of me tells me to stay put.

“No, I’m not.”

“Do. As. I. Say,” he commands, stretching across the table so that his face is inches away from mine.

“Is there a problem here?” a deep, rumbly voice asks, and as I lift my eyes, I see the guy I locked eyes with a few minutes ago. Shit.

“Everything is fine,” my husband growls. “Mind your own fucking business,” he says, standing up to the guy.

Fucking Brad. And fucking me. I’m totally fucked. I’ve never seen him punch anyone, but this might be the first time.

“Brad, please,” I say, pleading with him, but he barely acknowledges me.

“I’m the manager, so this is my fucking business,” the man replies, inching closer to my husband. Brad grits his teeth and stands his ground, but the manager doesn’t back down. He’s got a few inches over my husband, his shoulders are wide, and his arms look much beefier than Brad’s. He could probably cause some serious damage to him. My husband knows better than to get into a fight with someone bigger than him, but stranger things have happened.

The waiter comes back, my husband signs the credit card receipt, and then he points his finger at me.

“Get in the car.”

Everyone is staring at me. The entire restaurant is suddenly still. Forks are midair, glasses are no longer clinking, and I swear even the cooks are staring at the scene through the opening in the kitchen. Can you die from embarrassment?

“Man, maybe it’s better you just go,” the tall restaurant manager says, but I can’t make myself look at him, my eyes zoned in on Brad’s bunched-up fists.

“I’m not going anywhere without my wife,” Brad says between gritted teeth.

“It doesn’t look like your wife wants to go with you right now,” the man says.

“For the last fucking time, get in the car.”

“No,” I say out loud, finally finding my voice.

I hear someone clear their throat in the restaurant, but everything else is still, and I don’t have the guts to even meet the gaze of anyone seated nearby or witnessing Brad’s behavior.

“If you don’t get in the car right now we’re done, you hear me?”

I flinch at his words. They slice through my heart, and all the blood comes spilling out. I’m appalled that Brad would think an ultimatum is the way to fix things when I already feel like we’re emotionally miles away.

I lift my head and meet his icy gaze. “I’m not coming with you.”

“Then we’re done. You hear me? We’re done, you fucking bitch.”

Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, but I don’t want him to see me cry. Blood boils in my veins and my head is pounding. I can’t believe what’s happening, even though I was the one who lit the match that sparked this fucking disaster.

“Okay. Just go, please.” I don’t recognize my voice, eerie and calm. I must be in shock. It’s the only plausible explanation. However, my words aren’t as shocking as what happens next.

Brad lets out a frustrated growl and storms out of the restaurant, throwing everything he finds in his path on the floor. Before he reaches the restaurant entrance, he grabs a plate from a nearby, recently vacated table and throws it on the tile floor, making everyone brace for cover. He walks out to the car, parked almost directly across from the table where I’m sitting. He opens the trunk, pulls my luggage out, then opens the side passenger door, and throws all my belongings on the ground, including a ceramic vase I had bought only an hour ago.

My heart collapses in my chest thinking he’s going to throw out my laptop, until I realize my Mac is in my bag right next to me. I can’t even remember why I had brought it inside.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Brad slams all the car doors, and then turns to me, giving me the middle finger, shouting, “We’re fucking done, you hear me? We’re done, you bitch! DONE!” His expression is contorted like that of a spoiled, scorned child. I blush, simply because I’m deeply ashamed.

I can still hear him shouting outside as he turns the ignition on and raises his arm and middle finger out the window as he drives away.