He apologizes before every bruise has faded

Dear Delyara, My husband never hits my face. He says he isn’t stupid. He grabs my arms, pushes me into walls, twists my wrist, blocks doorways. Places clothes cover. Places I can explain. Afterward, he cries. He brings ice. He kneels beside the bed and says he hates himself. He promises therapy, church, no more drinking, anything I want. Then he asks me to forgive him because he cannot bear the thought of being “that kind of man.” I always end up comforting him. That is the part I hate most. Last night, he pushed me into the pantry door because I had moved his keys. This morning, he made pancakes shaped like hearts for our daughter. She said, “Daddy is the nicest.” I smiled. There is a purple mark under my sleeve shaped like his thumb. Sometimes I stare at it in the bathroom and wonder how many apologies a body can absorb before it begins to understand that none of them are protection.