David McElroy

Ellen was sobbing as she told me her story. She was confused. She said she knew she wanted to leave Andrew, but she felt guilty.

“He kept saying how much he loves me,” Ellen said through tears. “Mostly he talked about how much he needs me and counts on me. He said, ‘Can’t you see how much I need you?’ over and over again.”

I’ve heard this story before from Ellen, because she’s gone through this more than once with the man she’s married to. Andrew ignores her and treats her badly. He’s more interested in spending time with his friends than in building any family life with her. He’s disdainful and critical of Ellen, openly mocking her in front of friends and family.

Being treated this way kills Ellen inside.

She married Andrew because he swept her off her feet and he treated her like a queen in the beginning. But his behavior was erratic. He gave her attention when her devotion to him waned, but he pulled away as soon as she was committed again. This happened several times. She broke their engagement once, but Andrew talked her into going ahead with the wedding. He kept telling her how much he needed her — and Ellen found intense comfort in having a man need her that much.

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It always starts with children’s laughter and joyous shouts.

Their laughter can turn pain to joy. Their excitement can bring new hope. Their infectious smiles can make me feel that I can once again join them in their innocent love of life.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m at a Chick-fil-A and there are lots children here for a Thursday night. I’m watching families. Parents and young kids. There are a couple of small groups that seems to be just mothers and children. There’s a father who’s come to eat alone and visit with his son who works here at the same time.

I’m at a table near the back and it seems as though every child has to come by here with a mom or dad on the way to a restroom, either skipping along on foot or riding in a parent’s arms. It’s loud and it’s busy. But something about it all makes my heart happy.

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It happens when I’m driving. Or when I’m taking a break from work. Or in the split second when I’m waking up.

It happens a dozen times a day. Maybe more.

It’s a sudden realization that something is wrong — but I can’t remember what it is. That jolt makes me feel panic, as though there’s some terrible unspoken thing that threatens me — something I just can’t put my finger on. Something I can’t quite pull from my foggy memory.

The panic is physical. It does something in the center of my chest.

My heart starts to pound. In a brief instant, I become something like a caged animal ready to strike out at danger. But what is the danger? What is the threat? Why can’t I see it? What can’t I remember?

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