Member-only story
My Wife, My Abuser
It’s time we talked about a taboo topic: Domestic violence isn’t only perpetrated by men. This is my story, in three parts.
Part 1
Auspicious Beginnings
Alejandra arrived in the United States with nothing more than an oversized, teal-colored suitcase.
I remember thinking how funny it looked to see such a small woman dragging such a large piece of luggage through the Portland International Airport. She reminded me of an ant pulling a tiny boulder across an anthill.
Then it was one of those made-for-the-movies moments: two star-crossed lovers running toward each other, embracing in the middle of a busy airport, time, momentarily, ceasing to exist.
“I’m so glad I’m finally here,” she whispered in my ear, as I gave her the strongest hug I could muster.
“Me too.”
It was the improbable outcome of a two-year courtship across two different continents and nearly 6,000 miles between us. We’d closed a chapter that began in 2016 with a fateful bus ride I’d taken to Bariloche from Buenos Aires. She was my Couchsurfing host for one magical long weekend. Now, Alejandra was suddenly here in the United States.
