I locked my wife in the pantry under the stairs

hurt.

They should.

“I won’t.”

She studies me.

“I believe you more than I did.”

It is not forgiveness.

It is a door cracked open.

This time, I do not push.

We eat dinner. Nora bangs a spoon on her high chair. Emily laughs when sauce lands on my shirt. I freeze at the sound, because laughter in a kitchen used to mean someone was about to be humiliated.

But Emily continue reading …