One of the things I loved about having my own business was that I could work from home and be with Michael, and even jog at all hours of the day, hoping to bump into a handsome stranger named Erik. Unfortunately, it didn't do much for job security.

One day you were on top of the world with too many accounts, and the next, you had to scramble to make up for accounts you'd lost, whether because the job was moved in-house, or they found someone who could do what you did for a lot cheaper. Whatever the reason, it was the life I had chosen - and one where I now found myself scrambling to replenish an account lost after it was brought in-house.

If I still painted - or was brave enough to start painting again - I wouldn't have to live like this, setting up social networking accounts for small companies and work-at-home mothers trying to sell their creations but needing that extra push in the social networking scene. Sure, I'd be painting in the garage, amidst half-full paint cans and boxes destined for the thrift store and only while Michael slept, but there would be no scrambling. My paintings had supported me long before Eunice died, and afterwards, when she left me everything she owned.

But life has a way of reminding us that sometimes we just can't be in control of it all the time. Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lost. And with David back in my life now that Rosie was gone, I was far from winning.

With my social networking accounts barely paying the bills, I'd had to depend on David for his child support payments - payments he withheld on purpose to get whatever he wanted, like getting to spend more time with Michael during the week when he wasn't supposed to, or simply getting his way with me.

When I complained to the attorney about David not following the visitation agreement shortly after Chuck and the kids moved to Phoenix, I found David waiting for me at my house. That day, more than a year after I thought I had officially kicked David out of my life, he showed me just how wrong I was, how the nightmare I thought was over when I divorced him was never really over.

When David was done, there were no bruises. He knew better than to leave them. There were no broken bones, for he knew a second time at the hospital would cause more suspicion than it did the first time, when he claimed I tripped in the garden. What he did leave this time could not be seen by anyone, and it was just the way David liked it.

At least he'd had the decency to use protection this time, I thought, knowing that I'd still have the blood test done the next month for my annual check-up. At the very least, I was grateful that the last check up told me I was clean.

"I can take Michael away from you any time, Sam," he said. "I know enough people down at the Poopdeck and have them tell the judge that you were there last night, or last week, and that you left Michael alone at home so you could have a bit of fun with some random guy you just met."

"I'll even sue you for libel for that stunt you pulled in Beverly Hills, Sam," he continued, snickering. "That way, they'll have good reason to reopen your juvie records and see just what a bad girl you used to be. Do you think the judge would be more inclined to let you have Michael when he finds out that your good girl act is just that? An act?"

"And there's your mother," he added. "You really don't think I could find her and drag her in front of the judge? Show him the mother of the year, the one you'd rely on if I wasn't around? What was she addicted to? Heroin, was it? Do you think she'd be presentable enough around Michael? I didn't think so."

He pulled out his wallet and took out a wad of bills, tossing it at me. They fluttered onto the floor, untouched. "Here's the money for Michael, love, with a little extra for next month, in case I'm going to be out of town," he said, chuckling. "Don't spend it all in one go. Oh, and if you knew what was good for you, don't be running to your attorney again. You just might fall in the garden and break the other hand if you're not careful."

The tears didn't come till after I heard David drive off.

I'd made such a huge mistake when I married David, thinking that I was doing it so that Michael would have a father. I was eight months pregnant then, and he came from one of his long trips out of state to tell me that we were getting married. No asking, just ordering. I must have been in such an emotional state that I simply agreed, and we drove to Las Vegas and tied the knot, with Elvis singing some song to make me laugh.

After that, I could see no way out, not even after David showed how brutal he could be. Not even when I finally had the guts to order him to leave with Rosie and Chuck standing next to me, and later, not even with the matchmaking dinners Rosie set up so I could find someone new, someone who could rescue me from myself. But now, with Rosie, there was absolutely no way out at all. I'd made my bed, and it was time for me to lie in it, even if meant pain and heartache would be my only bed-mates.

I met David Dean five years earlier at a fundraiser benefiting programs for foster kids. He was impressed with the paintings I'd donated, and gave me his business card. He said he wanted to represent me professionally.

David was ten years older than I was, and already established in the local art world as an fine arts agent. Looking back, I'd gone from fearless at 14, surviving juvie, to clueless at 28, barely able to believe I'd actually found the perfect man. I'd spent the last ten years living with Eunice, I basically lived a sheltered life. I didn't even date then.

Back then, I advertised my work through websites like Facebook and DeviantArt. I accepted commissions and sold my paintings. I had them scanned professionally and released limited print runs before selling the original pieces on Ebay, donating a portion of the sales to charity. I had a following of loyal customers who praised my work more than they purchased it. But what did sell paid the bills, and that was fine with me.

But David wanted to change all that. He wanted people to buy my work more than just praise it. He sold my pieces at prices that I never thought possible, making me realize just how much I had undervalued my work. It taught me that I needed an art agent, someone who could guide me and help me focus my work.

While he traveled, I painted. I never knew where he went, only that he had clients in other states as well. He'd be gone for weeks, even months, but he always kept in touch, emailing me for developments, wanting to see pictures of my paintings in progress. He was my Svengali, he once said, and I was alright with that. I hadn't had that much attention from any man for so long, and it both thrilled and scared me at the same time.

Whenever David came to see me at the house, he'd critique my work. He wanted to hone my talent to perfection, he said, and groom me to be one of California's most talented painters. After working so long on my art, it was refreshing to hear someone say that - especially someone who knew something about art. I was so gullible then, and it showed. But I'd been cooped up for ten years, so what did I know? Soon, David and I were enjoying dinners together, going to concerts and afterwards, sleeping together. He introduced me to drugs but after what happened with my mother, I wasn't about to touch it, and so he reacquainted me with booze. It would help open up my art more, he said.

And maybe it did. David said that my work became more detailed, more vivid, and more evocative. Most artists, he said, had some kind of vice to go along with their craft, so why not me, too?

There was a sadness to my work, he said, that people responded to. If there was, I never really knew, for the pieces never stayed long enough at my house for me to appreciate it. He'd sell every single piece the moment the paint dried, and always asking, no, demanding more. This time, my pieces weren't selling as high as they used to, and David blamed it on the economy. But it was no reason to withhold my pieces, he said. They still sold, and that's what mattered. It was getting my name out there.

I had a few pieces that I kept away from David though, for I didn't want them sold at all. They were all stored in a garage I rented a few blocks away. One of the paintings filled one entire wall. One day, I thought, when I'd get to have my own gallery opening, I'd exhibit them. But only then.

Rosie and Chuck never liked David. They thought he was too controlling, too demanding of my art and not allowing me to paint the way I wanted to paint. They didn't like that I painted what he told me to paint, and seemed to withhold most of the money from the paintings I'd sold. He also kept me isolated from everyone else whenever he came to town, Rosie said.

I never believed them then. I was in love with David, and mistook his micro-management of my life for love. Looking back now, my only experience with men had been before I moved in with Eunice, awkward fumbling about in back seats of cars and my stepfather raping me whenever my mother was high. I didn't know any better, I guess, and by the time I did, it was too late. I was pregnant, and married.

By the time David drove me to Vegas to get married so that his son wouldn't be a bastard (at least that's what he said), I'd stopped painting. David was not happy. He began selling whatever he could find in the house. Paintings that hung on the walls for years began to disappear and when Michael was six months old, the paintings that I swore I'd never sell, the ones I stored in the rented garage, disappeared, too.

Frantic and hysterical, I accused David of stealing them from me. I left messages in his voicemail but he never called back. When he did respond, it was only to leave an angry message saying that he'd been out of town for the past week, and knew nothing of the paintings I was talking about.

I almost believed him until I found them all in Sarkissian's, a Beverly Hills art gallery a week later, being sold without my consent. With Michael in his baby carrier, I stormed inside the gallery and screamed till I was hoarse. I didn't care if the gallery owners were legitimate, that their dealings with my art agent were legal and believed to have been done with my full consent. I demanded all my paintings back, and I swore I was going to sue everyone who was involved, even David. Those paintings were the only things I had now that David had sold everything else. Those paintings were my life.

David's retaliation was swift. No marks on my skin, no bruises. Only a broken wrist that was blamed to me having fallen in the garden, and all the recovered paintings sliced to shreds. It was enough to put a stop to any painting career and kill anyone's spirit to see the most precious belongings destroyed right before their eyes.

And it did.

When David left to take care of another client in New Mexico, I finally asked Rosie to help me file for divorce. Though Eunice had left me the house when she died, I had not added David's name to the title even though he had insisted I do it now that we were married. It helped that Rosie kept the documents in her house then, though I'd since moved them back into my house and stored under my bed.

It was probably one of the few smart decisions I'd made during my time with David. That, and filing for divorce.

While my wrist healed, I started my social networking business. I couldn't paint, even if I wanted to. It was as if the fire had finally gone out. I was too ashamed to let anyone know about David's abuse, a secret that had to be filed away the same way my juvie record was expunged.

While my divorce was pending, Rosie started introducing me to other men, inviting me to dinners at her house. If we hit it off, we dated once or twice, but never more than that. If we didn't, we said nice to meet you and moved on. Most of the time, I moved on.

"You're not alone, you know," Rosie said to me a few weeks before she died. "One day, you'll find someone special you can spend your whole life with. Someone who'll love you no matter where you came from or what kind of life you lived before now. He'll see the light inside of you that you think has gone out, but it hasn't, Sam. It refuses to go out."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you've always been a fighter, Sam," Rosie said. "And one day you'll realize that just because you divorced David doesn't mean you've let go of him up here, too." She tapped her temple. "You still hear him telling you what a loser you are without him. And you still believe it. But one day, you'll snap out of this, and realize that you aren't whatever it is he thinks you are. I don't know when that will happen, but it will. And when it does, I'll be with you all the way."

I remembered snorting in laughter then, not really wanting to be serious lest I'd start crying. "Who'd want to be with me, Rosie?" I asked, chuckling drily. "I'm 32 and most men my age want a woman in their 20's. You see that in almost all dating sites. Hell, you see that right here in the South Bay!"

"Then those men are stupid," Rosie said. "And they're not the men you want in your life anyway. You want a man who knows how to court a woman, who respects her and worships her, Sam. Someone who'll treat you like Miss Right, not Miss Right-Now."

"You need to catch up to the times, Rosie," I laughed. "No one courts anyone anymore. Courtship is a lost and dead art. Anyway, I don't like the idea of having to compete with someone in their 20's with tits up to here and an ass so tight you could bounce a quarter on them. My own ass has lost its fight with gravity."

I thought I was being funny but Rosie didn't laugh with me. "The day you say to yourself that you don't deserve to be loved, Sam, is the day you let David win completely. He broke you back when you were married, and you still let him break you now that you're divorced."

I remember how I became quiet after that, the honesty of Rosie's words slowly sinking in.

"Is it really that obvious?"

"Just...just don't let him win, Sam," Rosie sighed. "No matter what happens, don't ever let David win."