She never made the jokes; she never pushed me into any fountain.

And for most of my life, I let that distinction excuse her — I told myself that my mother was a victim too, that she was as trapped by Arthur as I was, that her silence was the survival of a frightened woman rather than a choice.

And there is truth in that.

But there is also a harder truth underneath it that took me thirty-two years to face, which is this: my mother had more power than she ever admitted, and she chose, over and over, not to use it.

She could have left.