George was not a man given to dramatic displays of emotion. That was part of what made the moment so startling. One second he was rinsing a dinner plate at the sink. The next his whole body had gone still, and when he turned to look at me his jaw was so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
“No,” he said.
Just that one word. Flat and immediate.
Then, because he saw how surprised I was, he softened his voice and added the explanation I would repeat to myself for years like a prayer whenever I felt a small flare of hurt about being excluded from that part of his life.
“The buildings are old, Amanda. It isn’t safe. There are wells, loose boards, old equipment. I need you to promise me you’ll never go out there alone.”
I promised.
I was good at promises. Good at rules. Good at letting people keep the pieces of themselves they didn’t want examined too closely. If I had a flaw, it was that I could mistake restraint for virtue. I believed love meant respecting the closed doors people asked you not to open.
So I let the farm become a sealed-off word in our marriage. George went there. I stayed home. It did not become a fight because I refused to let it become one.