I settled into the routine of being a stay-at-home mom. Our sleep schedule was weird, hectic at best, but it worked. I can't say life was amazing, but it wasn't bad either. We had real, normal moments tucked in between all the chaos. And sometimes, those moments were enough to make it all feel okay.
Halloween was a perfectly ridiculous example. John dressed up like a baby. Our baby dressed like a dog. And our dog? She dressed like a cop. It was hilarious and weirdly poetic. We took our tiny bundle trick-or-treating. Because obviously he needed candy. He didn't get to eat any of it firsthand, but hey, breast milk counts as secondhand consumption, right? Chocolate milk for the win!
Ashton actually said his first word at just three months old. Dada. Clear as day. No babble, no debate, just "Dada."
Nobody believed it at first. Everyone said it was a fluke. But then one day, John picked him up and Ashton looked straight at him and said it again. "Dada." And that was that. The boy had spoken. He didn't say "Mama" for a few more months. I'm not bitter. (Okay, maybe a little.)
Thanksgiving came, and John had to work. On my side of the family, Thanksgiving is an all-day food festival where we eat enough to feed a small country and still end up with ten pans of leftovers. So I packed up some food and took pans of turkey, stuffing, and pie to the officers working that night. Holiday shifts are long, twelve hours or more. Everyone was grateful for the homemade food.
Christmas that year was simple. Ashton's first Christmas. We didn't exchange gifts. Didn't buy him anything either. He was six months old and didn't care.
I wish I could say skipping gifts felt minimalist. Intentional. Something hipster and enlightened. But really? It just felt sad. Not because I wanted something extravagant. Just a card, a little token, anything to say "I thought of you." But that wasn't us. That was never us.
Our marriage wasn't built on love notes and surprise gifts. It was built on survival. Budgeting. Avoidance. A gray kind of marriage. Not black-and-blue (not yet), but definitely not colorful either. If I had to describe it in one word? Depression. Our marriage was depression.
It was conversations that went nowhere, meals eaten in silence, sex that felt more like an obligation than a connection. It was easier to scroll our phones than look at each other. Easier to pretend tired was the problem than admit it was resentment.
His grandparents more than made up for it. John's parents spoiled him. My parents? Even more so.
Ashton was the first grandchild on my side. The first great-grandchild on my mom's side. The second great-grandchild on my dad's side. But the first who lived close enough to be seen regularly. So naturally, he was the star of the show. Everyone passed him around like a hot potato, and he soaked it up. He loved the attention, the snuggles, the chaos. He smiled at everyone, kicked his little legs, cooed like he was born to be adored.
John's older sister Daphne had four kids at the time. Her youngest was just a month younger than Ashton, so at least he had one cousin close in age, someone to grow up with. Someday they'd cause trouble together, but for now, they just blinked at each other in infant confusion.
I clung to those quiet milestones. Not because they were monumental but because they were mine. Ashton reaching for a cousin, giggling at his Aunt Lynn, babbling in his crib. They were tiny rebellions against the life I didn't want. Every smile he gave someone else reminded me that not everything in my world belonged to John.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, bought Ashton way too many things. Toys, clothes, books, teething rings, baby gadgets we never even opened. It's not like he needed anything. All he really wanted was his mama.
And his Aunt Lynn.
Lynn, my baby sister, was his favorite. Eventually, even over me. I'd walk in, and he'd light up, for her. Not for me. I wasn't mad about it, not really. It was sweet. And honestly? It was nice to see someone else love him the way I did.
Ashton eventually had nicknames for all my siblings. His own baby babble versions of their names. But not for Lynn. She didn't even get a name. Instead, every time he saw her, he'd clench his tiny fists, hold them up to his face, and just shake with excitement.
No sound, no word. Just pure, vibrating joy. Like seeing her short-circuited his little baby brain and all he could do was tremble from happiness. That was his name for her, total, wordless delight.
Sometimes I'd just sit back and watch, soaking in the joy that surrounded him. Even in the middle of everything else, even in a marriage already unraveling, those moments with Ashton were pure. They were mine. They were real.
I tried to remember if anything major happened during that time, any defining moment, any big red flag I hadn't already told. But I couldn't. Not because it was peaceful, but because nothing stood out enough. That's the thing with abuse sometimes. It's not always a hurricane. Sometimes it's a constant, choking fog.
I'm sure we fought. I'm sure there were days he raised his voice, days he grabbed my arm too hard, days he iced me out completely. But none of them crossed the threshold that had become my internal alarm: the cops didn't come. That was my baseline for "bad." If the police weren't called, then I told myself it wasn't that serious.
I had to check Facebook memories just to see if I'd forgotten something significant. But that was the trick of it, he made the "normal" feel like survival, and anything short of disaster felt like love.