What the Bread Was For

“She’s my mother.

What do you want me to do, Marlowe — throw her out of her own apartment?” he’d mutter, eyes on the screen.

He told himself that was reasonable.

It was only cowardice, wearing the mask of reason.

That was the pattern of their whole marriage, and its slow poison, because Junia’s cruelty was almost never dramatic enough to force a confrontation.

It came in increments.