I’m the punching bag.

I’m the caregiver punching bag.

I break my wrists, my back, my mental health, so that my husband can have an eternal infant to say “kiddo” to and everyone else can tell me she’s cute.

I get to have my hands full of idiot piss in a disgusting sweaty handicapped bathroom in Albuquerque, I get to spoon-feed her while the stranger next to me criticizes me, I get to be the one making sure she doesn’t break everything in the store because she walks all over my husband and doesn’t respect him, I get to take care of the animal minded child while everyone tells my husband it’s so cute how she looks at him. Lucky for him he doesn’t have to do anything other than tickle her and pretend to have a daughter. 

I get to suffer and be the martyr for something I’m only doing because I was lied to. I didn’t sign up for this, but I get to die for it while my husband feels like a hero. Tell me why exactly why I should believe that love or justice exists in this world, or that God cares about me.