For years, I mistook that arrangement for security.

I told myself I was lucky, cared for, protected, spared the struggles other women had.

It took me a long time, and it took the worst day of my son’s life, to understand a thing I now believe most of the way to my bones: that being cared for and being controlled can sometimes wear the very same expensive suit.

Julian had not taken over the earning so that I could rest.

He had taken over the earning so that I would have nothing of my own — no income of my own, no independence, no way to leave — and he had done it so gently, and dressed it so beautifully in the language of generosity, that I thanked him for it.

For six years, I thanked him for building the cage.