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Thirteen. That's supposed to be the unlucky number. It was for me. I had been married for thirteen years and the verbal abuse had only escalated. We had known each other three months when we decided to marry. I was widowed with four children. He was divorced and had two children. It would be the "bratty bunch" we'd laugh. Little did I know what lie ahead for me.

We moved into a six bedroom home on fifteen acres. Perfect for the kids to ride their bikes or camp out. The problem was my step-children were undisciplined and rebellious. At age sixteen, Matt raced his motor bike through the woods and built dangerous ramps to capitulate him into space. It wasn't long before my six year old tried his hand at it and nearly broke his neck. Another time, Matt tossed gun shot shells into a camp fire. One of them exploded and hit his friend standing near by. He required immediate surgery on his leg.

I called for a family meeting to discuss the incident and to lay firm boundaries to insure that nothing like this would happen again. "I don't want to see so much as a fire cracker in this house," I warned each of them. They sat huddled and solemn around the kitchen table. I looked at my husband. "Agree?" I asked. He nodded his head.

Later that evening, I heard Matt asked his father if he knew where any empty bottles were because he wanted to make bottle rockets. Without a blink of doubt, my husband told Matt where he noticed some empty bottle laying out in the road. I couldn't believe my ears.

I stormed into the living room. "Wait one minute. What about the discussion we just had over this kind of activity?"

My husband's six-foot two frame towered over me. "Matt's the only one who knows how to handle these explosives," he yelled.

That was just one of many incidents that crossed my path. I soon learned that I had to frame my questions in just the right manner or I would receive a sharp rebuke. One night after a heated discussion my husband told me I could leave any time. He said his first divorce was painful, but with me it would be a piece of cake. It felt like a knife had been plunged into my heart.

Like so many women before me who have been verbally or physically abused, I decided that I needed to try harder to make "him" happy. I planned romantic dinners, bought sexy underwear and made sure the house was spotless. Inside, I was seething with unresolved resentments but convinced myself it wasn't important enough to make an issue over it.

It seemed the harder I tried, the worse things

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