his cup. And then I noticed something even stranger.
He wouldn’t look at me. All morning, he avoided my eyes.
Every time I entered the room, he suddenly became interested in the newspaper, the television, the window.
By noon, I was more disturbed by his behavior than by the bruise itself.
That was when our daughter Sarah came over. I hadn’t planned to tell her. But when I reached for something in the kitchen,
my sleeve moved. She saw it.
“Mom, what happened to your arm?”
“I don’t know.”
She frowned.
“You fell?”
“No.”
“Dad?”
George was sitting at the dining table. He didn’t look up. I lowered my voice.
“He says he doesn’t know either.”
Sarah stared at him for a long moment.
Then she took me into the hallway.
“Mom, was Dad beside you all night?”
“Yes.”
“And you really don’t remember how that happened?”
“No.”
Her voice
