“Wendy—”

“Where are my shoes.”

“Wendy, stop.”

“He is not going to do this to you and then sit at that table and eat my chicken.” She was crying, which I had seen twice — once at her mother’s funeral and once when my son was in the hospital with croup.

“He is not going to do that.

Get your keys.”

I got in front of the door.

Not because I didn’t want to go.