instead of Owen, who had been doing the job for years, he said,

“Maybe the guy needed the opportunity more.”

Whenever someone raised their voice, Owen became quiet.

His shoulders stiffened.

His thumb rubbed repeatedly against the side of his finger.

One night, I finally asked him about it.

“Why do you let people walk over you?”

He stared at the ceiling.

“Because the alternative is worse.”

“What alternative?”

He looked at me.

For a moment, I saw something old and frightened behind his eyes.

“Becoming my father.”

Then he rolled over and turned off the light.

I had met his father, Frank, only a handful of times before Owen and I married.

Frank was a large man.

Louder than everyone around him.

His temper could change the atmosphere of a room instantly.

At one barbecue, he shouted at a grill because the charcoal wouldn’t light.

At a restaurant, he