been the wife who measured her words carefully or pretended not to notice when her husband came home smelling of unfamiliar perfume and expensive restaurant food.
When Daniel and I married, I was twenty-eight years old.
He was thirty.
We were young enough to believe that love could solve almost anything, and poor enough that we celebrated when we could afford to replace a broken appliance without putting the expense on a credit card.
Our first apartment had one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room window that refused
