understand.”
I looked at him.
“I don’t want to spend my life investigating you. I don’t want to wonder where you are every morning or whether every story you tell me is true. I want to be your wife, not your detective.”
He reached for my hand.
“I’m sorry.”
This time, the apology wasn’t followed by an excuse.
I squeezed his fingers.
“Then keep showing me that I can trust you.”
That was all I asked.
Because after eleven years of marriage, I had finally understood something I should have
