“I was a good wife,” she says, crying.
And I thought I was a good husband, I mutter as I retreat to my office.
But what of the shutting down, a behaviour modeled by my father who rarely said a word, who even more rarely raised his voice, who often retreated to his bedroom from his tearful wife, locked the door, and turned on the radio ... loud.
I think of saying something ... anything ... and don’t.
even her words