It had started as an ordinary argument with Anthony about having a baby. You trying to convince him it was the right time because you didn’t have much left. Him deflecting as usual, claiming there was no rush. He was being unreasonable. You’d been married five years, were both settled in careers, had a two-bedroom apartment. What was there to wait for? He said it was your relationship. He brought up therapy again. You told him he was immature and scared. He asked you to stop yelling. You said you weren’t yelling. You told him he was making you miserable. That everything in your life was right, except for him. He asked you again to stop yelling. You said it wasn’t fair. You’d worked so hard, done so well. All you wanted was a family and you couldn’t have one because he was afraid. Because he was pathetic.
“This is why I don’t want to have a baby with you,” he said.
The with you clanged and echoed in your chest.
“You’re saying it’s me?”
Anthony’s brow creased. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, he said, “I’m scared.”
“I know,” you said.
“I’m scared if we have kids, you’ll treat them the way you treat me,” he said.
Suddenly your legs didn’t feel strong enough to hold you. You sat down on the couch.
“You really think I’m that bad?”
“Look, a lot of the time, you’re fine. Great, even. But you turn so fast.”
“Anthony, if you had doubts, the time to tell me was five years ago. You know how important this is to me. I wouldn’t have married you if I thought there was any chance you didn’t want kids.”
“I think we could be happy, just us,” Anthony said. “Plenty of people have great lives without kids.”
He wasn’t making any sense. This wasn’t what you planned.
“Are you saying you don’t want kids . . . ever?”
He looked at the floor. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”
It was the time to be nice. You knew this, even in the moment, despite the dense anger gathering inside. It was the time to show Anthony you were not the person he was accusing you of being. But you couldn’t help it. He’d strung you along until you were forty years old and stuck with him. He was ruining your life. Adrenaline pumped through you. Your vision got grainy. Your hand reached out for whatever was closest. A book. A hardcover. It was one of Anthony’s. You don’t remember the title.
You have never been very athletic. Never good enough at anything involving a ball to move past junior sports. But in that moment of anger and despair, your aim was perfect. The book hit Anthony in the throat. He bent forward, hands clutching his neck, eyes bulging in shock.
Horrified at yourself, anger instantly deflated, you stepped forward to help. Anthony held his arms out to keep you away. He coughed and tried to speak but couldn’t get words out. He looked at you and shook his head. He left.
It might have been the suddenness of it. Perhaps if the demise of your marriage had been more incremental, you could have adapted to the pain over time. But with it crumbling all at once like that, in a single afternoon, immediate relief was the only option. Searching the medicine cabinet for something up to the task, the best you could find was a bottle of Tylenol PM. You took a handful and waited for oblivion to crowd out your devastation and shame. Potent sleep took over, but later, a deep stabbing in your stomach woke you. You were foggy and scared and dialed 911.
In the hospital, with a belly full of charcoal, you called Anthony to tearfully explain what you’d done.
“Maybe now you can get some help,” he said.