text: Content Warning: mentions of domestic violence, postpartum depression, anger issues, substance abuse Something in my brain shifted when he slammed his glass on the table and shouted “grow up!” He continued speaking, a blur of angry expressions and fists hitting the table. My head was swimming, ears ringing, like my hearing had been knocked out. I was more focused on the glass, a gift I’d gotten him as an inside joke: world’s best teacher. He chipped the rim with his temper tantrum. Every pound to the wood made the whiskey slosh and splash the ungraded essays scattered about. He finally stopped, his tense hands spread out and holding up his weight, his too-blue eyes staring a hole into the glass. I used to love his hands, how they’d touch and thrill and tease me in secret. He had never said anything like that to me. Grow up . I repeated the words slowly, tasting the syllables, not quite understanding their meaning. He’d never mentioned age. He never told me I was mature, or adult, or grown up. He went out of his way to avoid the topic. He had simply respected me, treating me like he would treat someone his own age. It had never felt wrong with him. My next words came out in a whisper, a painful shock to the yelling and hitting moments before. “So I guess I wasn’t grown up enough when we got together?” There was a glimmer of emotion in his eyes, initially reading as anger, but I knew it was guilt. I was sixteen years old, barely old enough to drive yet, and he was thirty. And why did it never seem wrong until this moment? My eyes searched around the lavish house in the suburbs that he had to have. The kitchen was a mess, which had started the fight in the first place. Toys were scattered on the floor, the high chair was dirty from meals days before, and the dishes piled in the sink. I don’t even remember the last time I had a shower. The depression is overwhelming, which is what I tried to explain to him. I was reaching out for help and he started screaming in my face that I can’t even do my one job. And now we’re here. I saw the stacks of essays in my peripheral. A similar stack had once held an essay of mine, written with after school help from the cute new teacher. I never felt nervous around him, not like when I tried to flirt with boys my own age. In that moment I felt powerful, filled with stupid hormonal lust. I touched his leg when he finished reading my paper, giggling and claiming it was an accident. But I doubt it was accidental when he placed his hand on my cheek and kissed me. Now, the only time his hand meets my cheek is when he hits me, and the only time he kisses me is when he wants sex. I don’t know why I did it-pursuing a man twice my age. The original plan was to get him to sleep with me, a bet my friends and I made. That’s all I wanted, but then I started catching feelings. First love is a powerful drug. The guilt on his face disappears, replaced with his usual false sense of swagger, alpha male. He takes a sip from his chipped cup, laughing, a cynical sound saved for when you’re really angry. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” “Then tell me what you meant,” I started, not realizing I had these words on the tip of my tongue. “Tell me what the hell you meant, because I’ve sacrificed everything for you!” I put too much emphasis on the word everything, bringing my fist down onto the countertop. I hear the baby crying from the next room. I suppose that describes my experience of motherhood-Daddy can hit the table and even slap Mommy across the face, and Baby sleeps right through it, but when Mommy gets loud and stands her ground, Baby wakes right up. He looked back down, passing the cup between his hands. The look on his face suggested that our argument was over. “Aren’t you going to take care of that?” He pointed his cup towards the sound of crying. “No.” “No? Why? The baby is crying and it’s your job to calm him down.” I was in his face in an instant, sarcastically listing on my fingers. “He’s fed, he’s changed, the sound machine is on, he’s fine.” I felt crazy, like I was losing my mind. I snatch the cup out of his hands, something I know he hates. A part of me is afraid he’ll hit me for it, but the bigger part of me doesn’t care. I swallow the rest of the liquor. “That’s the baby you wanted so badly, why don’t you go and soothe him? Oh wait,” I laugh. “He doesn’t know who Daddy is, because Daddy is never here, and when he is here, he’s drunk! and yelling! and hitting on Mommy!” I’ve finally lost my shit. The look on his face is priceless, he’s shocked that I said that. I expect him to also start yelling. He looks into my eyes, and I ready myself for a fight. I feel every emotion, from anger to resentment to nostalgia to desperation. I give him pleading eyes. We’ve gotten away from who we used to be, but I don’t want to just lose him. I want him to start understanding me for who I am now. “Who are you?” he asks calmly, his tone more frightening than if he’d gotten in my face and screamed the words. I’m his former student that was supposed to be a one-time fling. I never meant to fall for him but I did, and stupidly. My friends judged and looked down on me, constantly reminding me of the age gap. I came to him during his lunch period one day, begging him to move far away with me. I was crying about my friends reactions, telling him that I only wanted him, forever. He agreed, saying whatever you want, you can have. I replied, I only want you, and he said I’m all yours. They threatened to call the police and report him if I didn’t break things off. I lied and told them I did. They consoled me in my fake break-up, saying that he was only manipulating me. I only ever wanted you. I was terrified when I got pregnant, but you were so excited and happy, so I had our baby. I wanted to go to college, but I gave up my dreams for you. For our family , you constantly said. True love conquers all, you told me once, your hands gently cupping my face as we stayed after school yet again, resorting to janitor’s closets and dark, locked classrooms just to finally be alone together. I placed my hand on top of his. I had waited too long to answer his question. “I love you,” I told him, but he wouldn’t look at me. “I’ve loved you for a long time and I don’t think I can just stop loving you.” He removed his hand from underneath mine, staring at the wall for much too long, then whispered, “I can. We’re just too different.” The cup must have cracked more than I thought, because it shatters, the same moment that my heart broke and our lives together shattered.