My son ʜɪᴛ me just because the soup wasn’t seasoned with salt. The next morning, he said, “My mother-in-law is coming for lunch, cover everything up and smile!” Then he went to the office, and when he walked into his boss’s office, his face was as pale as chalk.

Brandon stared at me with an expression that flickered between disbelief and anger, and then his face hardened as though rage felt safer than regret. “Do not turn this into a dramatic scene,” he muttered, lifting his bowl and walking into the living room as if nothing irreversible had just occurred.

I spent the rest of that night sitting on the edge of my bed with an ice pack pressed against my cheek, staring at the ceiling fan as it rotated in slow circles. I kept asking myself how it was possible to love someone deeply and still feel a pulse of fear whenever their footsteps approached the hallway outside my door.

The next morning Brandon knocked once and pushed my bedroom door open without waiting for permission. “Amber’s mother is coming over for lunch,” he said in a flat tone. “Cover that bruise and act normal because we are not embarrassing ourselves in front of her.”