By the time Mr. Giant’s basketball career began heading toward its finish line, the air around us filled with a kind of buzzing uncertainty, like a TV left on in another room. He didn’t know which version of his future to choose. One day he was sketching logos for a business he might start, the next he was talking about coaching local kids, and somewhere in between he’d dream out loud about joining a collegiate staff…maybe even an NBA one if the right door opened.

Eventually, one did. A G-League team (NBA’s development league) offered him a player development coaching role. It was perfect timing, and only a couple of hours from home. Close enough that even though we’d still be apart most of the season, there’d be more chances to see each other. He made it home about three times; our son and I drove out once. Not ideal, but better than Japan. Better than being a whole hemisphere away from me.

So when he came home for Christmas break, everyone was thrilled, his friends, our family…even me, though I tried not to show how much I missed the version of him that felt present. One of his friends hosted an annual Christmas gathering, the same one he usually missed because of the season. I RSVP’d for one, planning just to stop by and surprise them with him at my side.

And surprise them, we did. The room lit up when he walked in. I felt warm seeing him surrounded by his people, even if half the room was unfamiliar to me.

But then she appeared.

A girl I’d never seen before beelined toward him, introduced herself with a bright smile, and slid her body right between us with her back to me like I was a coat rack. I blinked. Maybe she didn’t realize we were together? Possible. I gave her that grace.

What I didn’t give grace to was the way he carried on with her…talking, laughing, not so much as a “This is my girlfriend.” I felt myself shrinking, that awkward slow-burn humiliation creeping up my neck, and instead of standing there like the potted plant she seemed to think I was, I moved across the room.

Surely he’ll notice. Surely he’ll come find me.

But no. The night went on without him so much as checking.

At some point we were all called to take a group picture. He finally motioned for me to come over. Relief washed through me, until I stepped toward him and she darted in front of him again, angling her body like they’d arrived together.

I said, “Excuse me,” because yeah I’m that person who’s polite even when disrespected. She hesitated. So did I. A silent standoff occurred while the room buzzed with holiday cheer. When I finally wedged myself next to my man for the photo, she looked irritated…like I was the one interrupting.

And him?
He laughed.

Not a nervous laugh. Not a “this is awkward I should fix it” laugh.
A laugh that made me feel like I was the joke.

Something inside me snapped. Quietly. Surgically.

By the time we left, my composure was hanging by a thread. The second the Uber door clicked shut, that thread broke. Anger, embarrassment, betrayal…they all rushed out like they’d been waiting for permission. I don’t remember my exact words, but I remember the heat of it. The shaking. The disbelief that he was making me feel crazy for reacting to something he’d caused.

What I remember clearly, painfully, is him telling me to stop.
Then trying to silence me for the sake of not embarrassing HIM in front of the UBER driver…

His hand came over my mouth…then my nose. Panic flared…I couldn’t breathe. I tried to pull his hand away. He used the other one too, pressing down on my face, and in the struggle his finger jabbed my eye.

A sharp sting.
Then the warm bloom of a blood vessel bursting.

I spent the rest of the ride in silence. Not because I wanted to be quiet, but because he’d forced it.

By Monday, the mark was impossible to hide. People at work kept asking, “What happened?” And I realized suddenly, shamefully, that I was about to become one of those women. The ones who lie to protect the person who hurt them.

“It was my fault,” I heard myself say. “I opened a cabinet too fast and hit my eye.”

Ridiculous.
But somehow, “I did this to myself” felt less humiliating than “My boyfriend did.”