Reborn: My Boxing Class Beat Down on My Abusive Husband

The second I walked through the front door, I smelled steak.

I hadn't cooked anything.

I could hear laughing from the living room, where Taylor and his mom Linda were sitting on the couch. On the coffee table were two perfectly plated steak dinners. Those were the expensive steaks I'd bought yesterday for two hundred bucks, planning to cook them for Taylor and me this weekend.

"Emma's home," Linda said without even looking up, still cutting her steak.

Taylor glanced at me, mouth full. "Where have you been? It's already nine."

I put down my bag, exhausted. "Work project was due today. Had to get it finished."

"You're always working." Taylor put his fork down, obviously annoyed. "Mom's right—you don't act like a wife at all. Normal women come straight home and make dinner. But you? You leave us here with nothing to eat."

I thought about this same day last year.

Back then, Taylor would bring me soup when I worked late. He'd kiss my forehead when I was tired and say, "You work so hard, baby. You're my princess—let me take care of you." On weekends, he'd make me breakfast, sunlight hitting his face while he cooked, looking so sweet and caring.

But now...

"Taylor, it's not that I don't want to come home. I really had to finish this project," I tried to keep my voice steady.

"Work?" Taylor shot up from the couch, his voice getting loud. "You think your job matters more than me? More than us?"

Everything went quiet. Linda stopped eating, but I caught this excited look in her eyes, like she was enjoying the drama.

"That's not what I meant. I didn't think—" Before I could finish, Taylor was already walking toward me.

"Didn't think? Then why are you at work so late every single day?" His hand grabbed my wrist hard. "Why would you rather hang out with your coworkers than come home?"

"Taylor, just calm down..."

"I am calm!" His grip got tighter, his nails digging into my skin. Sharp pain shot through my wrist as I felt something wet.

It hurt. God, it really hurt.

"Taylor, don't get mad." Linda walked over, pretending to play peacemaker but smiling like she was loving this. "Girls today are so spoiled. They think having a job makes them hot shit."

She looked at me, her voice getting nastier: "Emma, when a man gets angry, it's because he loves you. I got hit way worse back in my day, and I turned out fine. You should be thankful. Not every guy cares enough to get mad."

I stared at her, shocked that another woman would say something like that. Taylor heard his mom and squeezed even harder.

I could feel his nails cutting into my skin, leaving these deep marks.

"Let go." I made my voice as steady as I could. "Taylor, let go of me."

Maybe it was how serious I sounded, or maybe he realized he'd gone too far. Taylor let go of my wrist. I saw four deep, bloody marks where his nails had been. The blood was already drying into this dark red color.

The living room went dead silent.

Taylor stared at my wrist, his face going white. Even Linda's smug look disappeared—she obviously didn't expect Taylor to actually hurt me.

"Emma, I..." Taylor reached for me, but I stepped back.

I didn't say anything, just looked at my wrist. The bloody marks looked really bad under the light, proof that what just happened wasn't some bad dream.

That night, I locked myself in the bathroom to clean up my wrist. The pain when the warm water hit the cuts made it all feel real. I started thinking about our marriage, about warning signs I'd ignored.

Taylor had been getting more and more controlling—he didn't want me eating lunch alone with guys from work. He'd started questioning everything I did, including work stuff. He'd been putting me down more often, saying I "just got lucky" with my job...

When did this start? Was it after Linda moved in?

At eleven, someone knocked softly on the bathroom door.

"Baby, can I come in?" Taylor's voice sounded so gentle, just like the guy who used to make me breakfast a year ago.

I opened the door and saw tears in his eyes.

"Emma, I messed up." He got down on his knees and hugged my waist tight. "I get jealous seeing how well you're doing. I'm scared you'll think you're too good for me, and that's why I lost it. I swear this will never happen again."

His tears soaked through my pajamas, and for a second I almost gave in. This was the Taylor I fell in love with—sweet, honest, needing me.

"Let me see your hand." He held my wrist carefully, gently kissing the cuts. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. How could I hurt the person I love most..."

I almost believed him.

But when I saw my pale face in the mirror and those awful marks on my wrist, this voice in my head said: This is the first time, but it won't be the last.

While Taylor was in the shower, I quietly took a picture of my wrist with my phone. Then I made a hidden folder and called it "Work Records."

In my notes, I wrote:

"Day 1: Wrist cut and bruised. Taylor said I 'better listen.' Linda was there, didn't try to stop him, actually encouraged it."