Some rational corner of me was trying to raise its hand — you don’t actually know anything yet, a child’s words are not a confession — but it was a very small voice, and it was drowning.
Because the story Sammy had handed me fit so neatly into the shape of every fear a wife is quietly taught to carry, the fear that runs under even a happy marriage like a cold current under warm water.
A woman.
In your home.
While you’re away.
My body had believed it before my mind had a chance to object, and my body was already halfway to devastated.