“And that’s that,” Charlotte shrugged, marking the end of the horrifying story.
“But, but why didn’t you try to get anyway? Why didn’t you try to report any of this?”
She shrugged again, a trait of hers I was slowly getting irritated with, “It seemed like no matter how much shit he did to me, there was still an ounce of me that still loved him. And there was also an ounce of me that thought, ‘Perhaps he’s doing this out of love or he’ll just stop one day.”
“He never did stop, did he?”
She answered my question by slowly pulling up the right sleeve of her shirt, revealing a rather nasty bruise, “Does this answer your question? And yes, this is what my status on Facebook was about. We got into an argument.”
“About what?” I wasn’t sure really what possible argument could lead a man to punch his daughter.
“The wedding. He wanted me to go, but I told him I’d never go to any wedding of his and spat in his face.”
“Wait, wedding?”
“Between him and his 5th wife. Once a cheater, always a cheater.”