April 12, 1944

My red-painted lips press against the paper in my journal just as John, with his mussed hair and red eyes, stumbles through the bedroom door. The first few buttons of his white shirt are undone, and his tie is sloppily pulled away from his neck. He’s hammered.

Again.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Gigi. Hitler ain’t gonna win this war, I just know it,” he slurs, tugging at his tie until the cloth breaks free. He trips over his toes and catches himself on the nightstand, causing a few items to topple to the ground.

“My God, John, how much have you had to drink?” I whispershout, setting my journal on my nightstand.

He waves his hand dismissively. “Not much. Just a few drinks with Frank at the bar,” he answers, though half the words are unintelligible.

“‘Not much’?” I echo in disbelief. “You’re going to break something!”

He sits heavily on the bed, and that causes me to jump out from under the quilt and storm around to his side. I grab his arm and tug. “You’re getting your filthy clothes all over the sheets! I just cleaned these,” I reprimand, my frustration mounting as he pulls away from my grip to take off his work shoes only to fail miserably, nearly toppling face-first toward the floor.

I catch him in time and once more try to pull him off the bed, which proves difficult when he’s hardly capable of bearing his own weight.

“Gigi, I’m fine,” he mumbles, finally standing upright.

“You know better than to sit on the bed in your outside clothes. Especially when you’ve just come from a bar!”

I don’t know why I’m focusing so much on something so insignificant rather than the fact that we don’t have money for him to spend on booze. He’s come home like this more nights than not, and every time, I find out he’s gambled and lost more of our money that we don’t have.

Again.

Tears well in my eyes as I drag him to the washroom. I keep my eyes downcast as I lean him against the sink counter and begin unbuttoning the rest of his shirt.

“Why you got your red lipstick on s’late?” he mumbles, his thumb swiping over my lip and smudging the color down my chin. I huff and jerk my face away from his touch.

“I just finished writing in my journal. I got to it later than usual today—I’ve been cleaning the house for the better part,” I snip, though my words shake from my mounting anger.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he coos, pinching my chin between his thumb and forefinger and forcing my gaze up to his.

I stare at him, searching for the man I fell in love with. For the man who swept me off my feet, vowed to my parents that he’d always take care of me, and who loved me so much, he built this house for me.

But the person in front of me now—I don’t recognize him anymore.

He’s more of a stranger than the man outside my window.

Disappointed, I remove my chin from his grasp and slip his buttonup down his broad shoulders. Only then do I notice the bruises marring his chest.

“Dear God, John! What happened?” I ask, brushing my fingertips over the purple and blue mottling his pale skin.

He turns, forcing me to stumble away as he unbuckles his belt. His back isn’t much better off, and dread sinks down my throat and drips to the pit of my stomach.

“Just a few people at the bar that run their mouths too much,” he mutters.

“John, please tell me this isn’t from the people you’ve gambled—”

“Drop it, Genevieve,” he snaps, turning his head just enough to allow me to see his side profile. Anger furrows his brow, and his stare is sharper now. Less glazed.

I shake my head, the tears returning tenfold. A few spill over to my cheeks, and I quickly brush them away as my husband finishes undressing.

Before he can see me break down, I turn away and rush back to the bedroom. My heart has climbed into my throat, constricting in the tight space and making it feel as if it takes effort just to beat.

By the time he makes it to bed, I’ve cleaned the red off my lips and slipped beneath the covers, my back facing him. Without a word, I switch off the bedside lamp, leaving us in darkness.

“I love you, Gigi.”

I don’t respond.

He’s breaking my heart, and the only thing I can feel for him is resentment.

I close my eyes and picture a different face to fall asleep to.

One that doesn’t belong to my husband.

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