Linda’s husband Sebastian was blowing away all the money. She had been fighting with him over his gambling addiction, which had only gotten worse. At the very beginning of their marriage, Sebastian would only go once every two weeks. He’d come home and tell her how much money he won, then treat her to a new purse or a romantic dinner. Linda didn’t ask too many questions; she didn’t want to be the nagging wife. When the power went out, they had to wait a few days to get it back because Sebastian didn’t want Linda borrowing money from family or friends. He told Linda he miscounted and used the money for an investment. She knew the problem yet kept trying to convince herself that her suspicion was really a conclusion derived from overanalyzing and overlapping evidence. To be clear, overlapping evidence is data that can be used to support several diagnoses. Linda fooled herself into thinking that the unpaid bills, the not coming home some nights, and irritability were not symptoms of a gambling addict, but of an overworked man who’s so tired he can’t keep track of things.

Father would often reiterate that if you repeat something false many times, you actually end up believing it. And that’s what he told her when she made up excuses.

 “You keep telling yourself that. You can make believe all you want. But you don’t fool me.”

Mother would say, “Ese hombre is doing something really well; you know what I’m saying.” He must have. I mean, he got Linda to agree to joint accounts, and in just several months of marriage, he was managing all financial affairs. Linda would ask him permission to buy herself dresses or custom jewelry. They stopped going on dates and spending time together. During the few family gatherings she attended, she wore the same glittery shirt. She’d change it up with a different bottom, shade of lipstick, or different hairstyle, but for three years, in every picture, she’s wearing the same top.

            “You really need to do something with yourself,” Father would tell her.

“You know, you really know how to make me feel like shit!”

“Why-- because I tell you the truth? Trust me, that man is no good. I mean, I talk to you now ‘cause you're my daughter, but you’re stupid for marrying him.”

“Not as stupid as Mom for staying with you!”

“You wish you could last as long as us. Trust me, you guys are not gonna last. I see you guys finished in no more than a year. Believe me. I know what I’m saying.”

Linda tried to save the marriage. I’m not sure if it was because of love or pride. Linda hated failing, especially if it meant that she’d have to hear Father brag about how he was right. She suggested counseling: “I don’t need anyone telling me how to run my marriage!” Sebastian shouted. He was angry as hell. He claimed that a marriage should be between two people. He, too, was against paying for someone to fix their problems. To him, it was a waste of money, money they didn’t really have. My sister read books and attended free seminars and workshops for couples. She went unaccompanied to the first one. Since it was quite embarrassing for her, she went to the other four with her gay friend Lucian. Linda felt less guilty about spending time and confiding in Lucian because he wasn’t heterosexual though to be honest, Lucian’s sexual orientation wouldn’t have mattered to Sebastian. He would’ve become irate of their friendship. Any man was a threat to him. From the sessions and books, Linda learned about love language and thought that perhaps if she tried to speak Sebastian’s love language more often, they would get along better. The problem was that she first had to understand what love language Sebastian spoke. She had to learn what body language he responded to and what his thought process was like when he interpreted cues and words.

It was a challenge indeed. She thought to herself that perhaps she should conduct herself in a more assertive way. She had always been quite opiniated and independent. But somehow, after the nuptials, she lost herself in trying to maintain appearances, and in retaining love. She thought that perhaps Sebastian missed the old her and needed tough love or someone to take control. She was wrong. Sebastian wouldn’t share with her any details of the finances. He hid important papers, phone calls, and receipts. He insulted her and was more absent than ever. She even tried to take control in the bedroom. He pushed her away and questioned her integrity. He told her that only experienced women moved the way she did, that it was disgusting. Then, he called her a liar and asked her how many men she’d been with.

My sister felt defeated. She tried one more thing, the middle ground: being seductive yet not so much so as to cause suspicion. She had to seduce him in a way that seemed innocent, nurturing, and alluring. She bought a nice silk bata and a domino set. The case was adorned with graffiti-like images of famous Puerto Ricans and symbols like the coquí and flag. She also bought some Bud Light and made chicken wings. When he arrived, she opened the door and greeted him with a hug. Sebastian walked in and took off his shoes. He didn’t tell her that she looked good or that he was happy to be home. Instead, he asked when and where did she get the bata and how much did it cost. Linda told him it wasn’t expensive, and she would work extra hours to pay for it. My sister tried disguising her disillusion and remaining optimistic. The house was clean and smelled good. The table was set, and the chicken wings came out perfectly. The rest, however, didn’t turn out so well. Sebastian was cold. He ignored her the entire night despite her many advances.

Linda called the house the next morning. She was upset about the whole situation and of the fact that they barely had sexual relations. Linda could throw her breasts and cuca all in his face, but nothing, yet when they engaged in intimacy, everyone could tell. She would be happy for days. We all talked about how he was cheating on her. We didn’t have the proof, but we were sure. I think that's why Linda stopped coming over for like two months. She could tell that even though we talked to her and smiled to her face, in our heads, we were saying: “¡Qué pendeja!”

The remarks didn’t help either. If she said, “Sebastian is at work until late tonight, so I’ll stay a little longer,” she’d hear, “Oh he’s at work. That late? Hmm, I see. That’s nice.” Sebastian was always working late and sometimes overnight and didn’t like to be questioned. Linda told me about the first time she discovered lipstick on his shirt. When she asked him about it, he got all irritated and told her that he works with men and women, and sometimes, the women greet him with a hug. Well, apparently, females must have said hello and goodbye to him a lot because he often came with lipstick stains, and his shirts many times carried a variety of scents: the sweet, fruity kind, lavender clean breeze, the mature flower fragrance, and the casual spray on mists with names such as Passion Rose, Mango Love, and Sweet Magnolia.

In the second year of the marriage, Sebastian forgot their anniversary and didn’t show up to the house on Linda’s birthday. He said he worked very late and fell asleep at the office. Linda was livid and disappointed. She didn’t yell. She didn’t throw shit. She just told him that it was over-- that she was done worrying about his whereabouts and activities or about getting a disease. Sebastian played the manipulative game. He begged and insisted on his innocence while urging her not be the one responsible for the demise of their marriage. So she didn’t divorce him just yet. The pendejo bought himself some time. It took eight months after that for Linda to leave. Sebastian had not paid the mortgage, lost all the money in their savings account and forged her signature on loan applications. When she told him she was gone for good, he begged her once again, but on his knees. After a minute or so of groveling, Sebastian looked down on the floor. Then, clenching his fist and placing his two large hands on the floor to help himself get up, he shouted with rage: “Fuck this shit! What am I doing degrading myself for someone like you? I’m not going to lower myself anymore. I’m not begging you to stay with me.”

“I’m going to Dad’s!” she shouted.

“You’re going nowhere.”

“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father!”

Linda went to the bedroom, picked up the phone and called the house. As soon as Linda heard Sebastian coming in, she hung up the phone.

“Who were you talking to?” he questioned her.

“None of your business.”

“Did you go on complaining? I don’t know why you tell our business to people.”

“You’re an asshole!”

“Who did you call?

“Leave me alone! Get out of my room!” Linda picked up a book and threw it at him.

“You fucking bitch!” Sebastian punched her in the stomach. Gasping for breath, Linda began crying.

“I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t mean to hit you. It’s that you don’t listen. Did I hit you hard?”

Sebastian held Lidia and began rubbing her stomach.

“I’ll get you some water.”

“Don’t touch me,” Linda cried. “Don’t you ever touch me. I’m leaving you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll have a clear head tomorrow.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

Sebastian grabbed her inhaler from the panty drawer and placed it next to her. He then left the bedroom and locked the door. I have no idea how long he would’ve kept her locked in the bedroom if Father, my brother Mauricio, and I hadn’t shown up at the house. We were having our regular Memorial Day barbecue with hamburgers, hotdogs, and chicken wings. We almost didn’t hear the phone ring because the bachata was playing while we were bickering about Father’s conniving ways: “Dad, we brought the good burgers and hotdogs. Why are you making us the cheap shit?”

“What are you talking about? These are good. They taste the same. Put some ketchup. You’ll see they very good.”

Mom handed him the phone, and all Father said was: “I’ll be there right now.”

He didn’t get into the details, just said, “Your sister is in trouble. Let’s go, Mauricio.”

“Why does he get to go?” I asked.

“Camila, you can’t go. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s not too dangerous for you guys to go. I’m going.”

“No, you’re not.” I ran to the car and hopped into the back seat. Father was speeding, which is rare because he drives like a turtle.

“Open the door! Open the door or I’ll knock it down!” Father yelled.

Sebastian opened the door and shouted, “What are you doing here making all this noise? This is my house!”

“Where’s my daughter? Where is she?”

“It’s not polite to show up to someone’s house unannounced.”

“Where’s Linda, Cabrón? Where is she?”

“She’s in the bedroom,” Sebastian replied.

“I’m taking her out of here.” Father went straight to the bedroom. Mauricio and I followed.

“Linda, abre la puerta. Soy yo.” Father said as he knocked on the door.

“I can’t open the door.” Linda responded.

“Why not? He’s not gonna do nothing to you.”

“I’m locked in here.” Linda explained.

“You motherfucker! You fucking cabron! Open this fucking door right now! Open it, or I’ll break the door and your fucking face!” Sebastian got the key out of his pocket and opened the door. Linda ran and hugged Father.

“Did you touch my daughter?” Father confronted Sebastian, and without giving him a chance to respond, he turned to Linda: “¡Te hizo algo este cabrón?”

“Get out of my house! This is not your place. You don’t get to dictate what goes on here! Get out!”

“I’m not leaving without Linda!” Sebastian shoved my father. My father shoved him back and both began swinging.

“Kick his ass, Father!” I shouted. Sebastian got my father in a headlock. Mauricio jumped in, and now, it was two against one. Despite the unfair advantage, Sebastian was a tough fighter. I decided it was important for me to be a part of it. I went towards Sebastian, and he pushed me. He was a monster, swinging like a pro wrestler. Mauricio got a hold of his arm, and he and Father pinned him down. At that point I had my pink Reebok in my right hand; I put it on his face and shouted: “Smell the shoe, motherfucker-- smell it!” I then began hitting his head with it.

“Let’s get out of here! They’re going to call the cops!” Mauricio yelled. Fortunately, Sebastian never accused us.

A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net-nominee, Elaine Nadal is the author of two poetry chapbooks: When and Sweat, Dance, Sing, Cut, published by Finishing Line Press. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in several journals and anthologies, including Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Spillwords Press, Haunted Waters Press, Hoot Review, and Latino Book Review Magazine. Nadal has shared her work in many venues. She recently did a TEDx talk on hope, poetry, and music.