I had bought Gaby a house, and a truck, and financial security, believing that giving her things would shield her from the world’s cruelty.

It did not.

Things can be forged away in an afternoon by a stack of papers and an exhausted signature.

What I had failed to give her early enough was the one thing no one can steal: the unshakable knowledge of her own worth, and the certainty that no one, not a husband, not anyone, ever has the right to disguise control as love.

She told me once, near the end of all of it, that the worst part of those terrible days had not been the shelter, or the begging, but something quieter and far more dangerous.