A week after I got married my husband punched me in the stomach because I didn’t fix his coffee right.

If anything wasn’t in its proper place I got hit. If I mouthed off to John, I got “what was coming to me.” The wrong look could earn me a black eye.

His moods changed like spring weather. I learned to keep beyond the reach of his hands.

Yet when he laughed and kissed me I could forgive him almost anything.

I’m sorry he’s dead, but the bastard had it coming.

Match the story (and the number) to the face at Mirrors.

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