I was still, even then, working so hard to explain him to myself.

That is a thing I understand now about the months and years that led up to that night, and about myself: I had become, without ever deciding to, the official translator of my husband’s worst behavior.

Every cold thing he did, I ran through a private machine in my head that turned it into something forgivable.

He was tired.

He was stressed.

He was scared.