see why I need to report every minute of my life to you.”
That was the moment the conversation stopped being about Saturday night.
It became about whether I had the right to ask my husband a simple question.
I began crying.
Not because I wanted to manipulate him.
Not because I wanted him to feel guilty.
I cried because I couldn’t understand how the man who once called me from a grocery store to ask which apples I preferred could now look at me as though my concern were
