Free The Space Between Promises by Rachel L. Jeffers

with tender carpenter's hands picked up my fragile heart and carried it when I could not. How was I to know that his own pain flowed so deep within him that we would break, over and over, falling just out of each other's reach, into deep places. Spaces of time where there seemed to be nothing to cling to. Nothing except the two most important words ever spoken; "I do." A promise.
     
    ***
    I turn it over in my hands as I have done many times in the last two years of our five-year marriage. Several years in the insurance industry, as well as the years I dabbled in education have taught me one invaluable lesson; document, document, document. This habit of writing up incident reports, or detailing lengthy notes in a claim file has served me well. And though the idea of a "Dear Diary" is not the least bit appealing to me, the evening that my husband punched a hole th rough the wall, and smashed a small table was the night I decided to "Dear Diary."

I smooth the cover of the journal, an inexpensive one that I think was given to me as some type of gift basket filler one year, and as it had been mercilessly squeezed between the pots and pans, a place Gregory was sure never to disturb, the cover was bent back. As I have done many times before, I scan the pages. My desire in doing so is an effort to hear my voice, so long held hostage in those two years after Sam came to us. The words jump out of the page and they are angry, indignant, despondent, unforgiving. These are the words I had longed to shout out at Gregory, and had learned since the wall, dresser and table incident that my shouting at him is certainly not an option.

I had told myself that should the day arrive when Sam and I would be able to break free, this journal might serve as evidence in the judge's ruling. I knew nothing of legality, but I knew that documentation such as this could never harm us. It might not be considered in the ruling, but it was worth the effort. I was helpless to decide my fate. I had no job, no place to go, and no way to support Sam on my own. The only thing I could do for him was to keep notes of Gregory's outbursts. I felt as though I was doing something, anything, to fight off his anger, one entry at a time. And so I did, for six months. The pages contain every foul word he spoke to me, every time when he refused to hand over his paycheck because he was angry over something like me moving the tools in the cupboard. It is a laundry list of Gregory's faults, failings, and contempt for me.

As I rifle through it, remembering the time he moved in with Finn for two weeks, missed visits with Sam, came and went for his appointed visits without speaking a word to me, and decided after two weeks he was desperate enough to come home. With a pang of guilt, I remember how affirming it was to reunite, and how I somehow did not feel any lack of esteem in doing so. I read my words, "Why is it still good between us, when we seem to despise one another?" I think now that the answer to that is because we are truly joined as man and wife, and the bond is strong and familiar, and knows no boundaries such as temporary separation.

Maggie toddles around the corner, and I pop her into the high hair, spooning out some pasta for her to nibble on. I close the journal and return it to its secret corner, and agree to give my impending decision a little more thought. It has been almost two years since Gregory has inflicted any kind of wrath on this home or that I have written in the journal, and as I am reminded that "love bears no record of wrongs," I am considering disposing of the journal. We have Maggie now, and our lives are peaceful, uninterrupted by my trying to work and take care of Sam, coming home after a long day at the office, to make a meal, do laundry, run errands. I am home, where I have wanted to be since the day when Sam was almost two, and I walked out of the office, leaving an impromptu resignation via e-mail. Then Maggie came, and our lives take