Gary particularly hated being called a “bowling league reject.” That league was his entire identity outside of making our lives miserable. The police made Gary leave the hospital, but they couldn’t make him leave our lives. Not yet.

Mom picked me up alone the next day. Gary was “working,” she said, but we both knew he was likely at home polishing that Corvette, telling himself he was the victim.

Let me back up and explain how we got here, because nobody starts out living with a man who thinks hospital assault is acceptable discipline. Gary entered our lives like most predators do: dressed up as salvation.

Three years ago, Mom was drowning in debt from my late father’s medical bills. Dad had fought cancer for two years, and even with insurance, the costs were astronomical. I was contributing everything I could, but it felt like trying to bail out the Titanic with a teaspoon. Then Gary appeared at Mom’s book club. He was someone’s plus-one, a self-proclaimed “successful businessman” who had moved to town for the quiet charm. He drove the flash car, wore suits that looked expensive from a distance (later revealed to be outlet knock-offs), and had answers for everything.’