I had taken ten weeks off from the pharmacy after Ashton was born. Some of it before my due date, and the rest until John had been back for almost two weeks. I loved that job. It wasn't glamorous or high-paying, but I thrived there. I didn't fill prescriptions or count pills. I was customer service, front desk, smiles, small talk, problem solving. And I was good at it.
People always say, "That kind of job doesn't pay the bills." I didn't care. I loved it. I loved the regulars, the way my coworkers joked with me, the way the pharmacists trusted me to handle the hard customers. I got a lot of satisfaction from doing a job well. I felt competent there. So I applied to the pharmacy tech program and started planning my schedule around John's. I'd work from 6:00 a.m. to noon, and on his days off, I'd stretch my hours longer.
My boss was amazing. She worked with me constantly. Let me sit when I was sick, take breaks when John called (which he sometimes did during work hours, even calling the pharmacy directly while he was deployed). It wasn't professional, but she never said a word. In fact, she and my coworkers threw me a baby shower and all chipped in for a huge gift. That place wasn't just a job. It felt like a tiny lifeline back to myself.
But John hated it.
At first, it was subtle, little comments like, "It must be nice to get out of the house," or "Too bad Ashton doesn't get his mom full-time." It escalated slowly. Then one day, it turned into outright nagging: You should be home with our baby. You should be taking care of me. Every day, another jab. Another guilt trip. Until I dreaded coming home from the job I loved.
He refused to bring Ashton to the pharmacy during my lunch breaks so I could nurse him on-site. It would've saved me so much stress. Being able to feed Ashton and eat without rushing across town. But no. Instead, I had to sprint home, pray Ashton was hungry and not screaming, try to eat with him latched on, and then race back to work. It wasn't even like I asked John to do it every day. Once would've helped. But he refused.
Within a month of me going back to work, John sat me down and declared he was not going to babysit our son.
Let that sink in. Babysit. His own child.
He told me— without warning —that it was my responsibility to find childcare if I wanted to have a job. That he was not responsible for covering "my shifts" with Ashton. It wasn't a conversation. It was a mandate. And he dropped it on me with the same charm as a lead brick.
He told me all this on a day when he had an early meeting at work. But didn't mention it until lunchtime. I had to be back at the pharmacy. I couldn't just not show up. So I scrambled and called my neighbor. The one with a baby just a month older than Ashton. She graciously agreed to watch him for a few hours until John finished at the office.
I assumed, wrongly, that he would pick up our son afterward.
Hours later, I got a frantic call from my neighbor. Ashton was screaming. He was hungry. She couldn't calm him down.
And I knew why.
He didn't take bottles. Never had. I couldn't pump to save my life, and we hadn't figured out any workaround that worked. If I wasn't there, he didn't eat.
And John? He hadn't gone to get him. He hadn't checked in. He just… left our son.
Because in his mind, Ashton wasn't his responsibility.
He was mine. Always mine.
I texted John and told him to go get Ashton. He replied with a thumbs-up emoji. Ten minutes later, my neighbor called again. Ashton was still screaming, and John hadn't shown up. Concerned, I called John. Maybe his meeting had run long. Maybe something had happened.
But then I heard it, the unmistakable sound of his favorite video game blaring in the background. I froze. "Are you at home?" I asked. He dodged the question, danced around it, but eventually admitted the truth— yes, he was at home. Across the street. Across the damn street from our hungry, crying baby.
I told him to go get Ashton. He said, "I'm not babysitting."
That was it. I lost it. Rare for me but this time, I exploded. I didn't just yell, I snapped. I told him it wasn't the neighbor's job to feed our son. It wasn't her job to soothe him or rock him or listen to him cry. It was ours.His.
He tried to argue, but I shut him down. Over and over. Until he finally hung up on me. And I thought— good. He's going to get Ashton. Finally. Maybe it'll be okay.
I got another call from the neighbor. Ashton was still screaming. So I called John again, furious now. I chewed his ass out. Told him to get our son. He hung up on me. Again. So I left work. I didn't even clock out... I just left.
When I pulled up to the house, my heart dropped. Base police were already there, his coworkers. John was a cop on base. My stomach flipped. I thought something had happened to Ashton.
I ran, didn't knock, didn't wait! I just ran toward the sound of his cries. I found him by following the screaming.
My neighbor was crying. Her husband stood beside her, tight-lipped and furious. And there was John, standing with the cops, calm as could be, like he was the one who needed protection.
My neighbor wouldn't even look at me. Her husband glared. I was already crying. Apparently, John had finally gone to get Ashton, by barging into their house, screaming at her. He called her names, insulted her, told her she wasn't my friend anymore.
Thank God her husband had been home. He told John to get the fuck out. The police didn't arrest him. Of course they didn't. They didn't even report it. That's the thing about abuse in the military, and with police.
They protect their own.
It gets covered up. Buried. Excused. And women like me?
We get left to pick up the pieces. That neighbor, my friend, never spoke to me again.
I gathered Ashton and his things while she stared at the floor. No one said a word. No one stopped him. I quit the job I loved because I knew I couldn't risk this happening again. And that was just the start. The first friend he isolated me from. The first of many.
That's the pattern, isolate, isolate, isolate.
They strip you of your people until there's no one left but them. And if you're reading this and it sounds familiar? I hope you see it. I hope you call it by its name.
Control. Abuse. Isolation.