When I crumpled onto my husband’s driveway with his birthday brisket sliding out of my hands, he didn’t rush to catch me—he stared down, annoyed, and said, “Judith, for God’s sake, stop this and stand up.” His mother called me attention-seeking, the guests backed away like I was contagious, and while a football cake melted under the Kentucky heat, one small bitter thing I’d ignored for months finally stopped feeling harmless.
My name is Judith Santana. I was thirty-two years old the summer my husband tried to kill me, and if you had asked me six hours before I hit that driveway whether my marriage was in trouble, I probably would have laughed and said something polite about communication, stress, and how every family has a little dysfunction if you zoom in far enough.
That is the lie women like me tell when we have spent too long surviving something quietly.
I worked as a billing coordinator for a chain of veterinary clinics based out of Covington, Kentucky. Which sounds more glamorous than it is. Most of my days were spent fighting with pet insurance companies, processing payments for blood panels on dogs who ate socks, and explaining to angry men why their golden retriever’s dental cleaning cost more than their own last root canal. I knew every shade of fluorescent office lighting, every hold tone from every major insurer in the region, and exactly how many times a day the front desk at our Latonia clinic would call and say, “Judith, quick question,” in the same tone people use before setting a small fire in your lap and walking away.
