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It was 1933. I was pregnant and poor. We lived on a farm in Oklahoma.
My husband was Alex.
I recognized him right away. He was in a different body, of course, and his name was Charles, but it didn’t matter. I knew him the same way I knew myself—that poor pregnant woman with the bruises on her throat.
I flinched whenever he came near. He talked to me like I was a dog. I was feeling sick—it was early in the pregnancy—and it slowed me down, and that made him madder. I wasn’t cooking right, cleaning right, giving him enough s*x.
I hated the s*x.
He was rough with me. Just jammed it in without trying in the slightest way to warm me up. He wouldn’t kiss me—barely even looked at me while he was doing it. I just turned my head and held my breath until it was over.
His mother lived with u
