That was the part outsiders never understood about a man like Damson, and the part Aracely herself had failed to see until it was nearly too late — that he had never once raised his voice, never once raised a hand.

If he had, she might have left in the first year.

Instead he had worked in corrections, small and reasonable, each one framed as help.

He wasn’t ashamed of her; he only wanted her to shine, and she’d shine so much brighter if she talked a little less.

He didn’t dislike where she came from; he only worried, for her sake, how others might judge it.

Each individual remark was so small, so easily defended, so plausibly loving, that to object to any one of them was to seem unreasonable, oversensitive, ungrateful for the fine life he’d lifted her into.