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I said, “Plainly I am worried. I don’t poverty Stewart finding unlit. Are you sure you have not told them?”

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Our fights. They were nothing, now. A week ago he’d been screaming at me, throwing shit, punching holes in our bedroom door. He’d called me a do-gooding cunt and closely belted me and then stormed out. And I swore we were done. Eight years on, and my husband had changed. He’d become grasping and violent and crude, the amicable of man I counseled women in the air at the Crisis Center, the kind of man that women needed to fear and escape. And I swore I’d never take him back.
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