He’d been a costume, worn long enough to get me into this marriage.

His mother, Camryn, had done her own version of it: tolerating me at dinners while quietly asking how much I earned each month, how many children I planned to have, whether my family could cover the wedding.

I’d swallowed her comments because Marvin swore that once we were married, we’d live our lives our own way.

I looked down at a fragment of the china my mother had given me when I left home. Then I stood up.

And instead of crying or begging, I looked Marvin in the eye and laughed.

“What are you laughing at, you crazy woman?” he roared.

“I’m laughing because you never once bothered to ask what I actually do for a living down at the municipal recreation center.”

Before I finished the sentence, he reached across the table and grabbed my arm.

I twisted my wrist against his thumb, broke his grip, and used his own momentum to take his balance. He stumbled backward and went down hard against the television stand, looking bewildered that a woman a head shorter than him had just put him on the floor.

He shoved himself up and grabbed a heavy wooden kitchen chair.

“I’m going to teach you to respect me!” he screamed, hoisting it above his shoulder.

Dodging it was easy. I’ve trained in karate since I was seven and competed in kickboxing all through college. I’m a black belt and a certified self-defense instructor, and five days a week I teach teenagers how to break out of holds far worse than his.