We seemed to be connected by something far more magical than love alone. We spent every waking and sleeping moment together when he was in town. We loved, and laughed, talked and giggled and journeyed deep into each other’s lives.

I drove my meager belongings down that little country road to Rosie’s house. As the car meandered along something very unusual was about to happen. Not certain what was obscuring my vision of the road ahead, I struggled to focus my eyes.

We met in 1998, a year before the assault. Today I believe it was divine intervention. She entered my home office by way of referral. Rose was her name. She looked older than her years as the ashen skin spoke of her searing physical pain.

With sales dwindling as I wound down the company, I thought I’d have to couch-surf and beg, borrow or steal. Returning the two company cars was the first time in my life where I wasn’t financially stable enough to own a car. And then the whole mess ended in bankruptcy; for me, not him. That was fun. Then a dear friend stepped up and offered me a wee spot to rest.

Skip forward six years from that woman in the window in 1993. Out of the blue one evening, my common law husband of six years decided to beat me up.