“I know I handled this terribly.”
That was the first honest thing he had said all night.
“I grew up in a family where traditions were never questioned. When my father said something, everyone obeyed. I thought I was protecting something important.”
He looked at me.
“But I forgot something more important.”
“What?”
“Respect.”
The word hung in the room.
For a man who had walked into our bedroom expecting obedience, hearing him admit that felt almost impossible.
My husband moved closer.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
Not at the man I married that afternoon.
But at the man standing in front of me now.
The man who had allowed his father to cross a boundary because he was too afraid to challenge him.
“Do you understand why I’m hurt?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I do.”
“No. I don’t think you do.”
I pointed toward the door.
