He always come with me to shops. Never help, just follow me.
I push trolley, pick food, check prices. He walk behind, hands in pockets, watching. Always watching.
He make sure I don’t stop to talk to anyone. If I see someone I know, I keep my head down, pretend I don’t. If I look too long at anything, he sigh loud, shift on his feet. “Hurry up,” he say.
After shop, he watch me struggle with bags. Stand there, waiting, arms crossed. Not his job, he say. I pack, I lift, I carry.
He tell me hurry up for TV. “Want to get back before it starts.”
Not we, just he.
It feel like I can’t do anything without him watching.
Not shop. Not walk. Not breathe.
