Early into my marriage, my father learned that he could no longer call me on the phone and start talking openly. If my husband wasn’t home when my dad called, I’d answer the phone and say, “Hey, I can talk.” And we’d talk about the we both knew I wanted, or else I’d just cry while he listened, furious and helpless.
But it was rare that I answered the phone this way. My husband was always home.We shared the most stifling homes together: first, my junior year dorm room and then, during my senior year, an apartment in downtown Annapolis that was so tiny we couldn’t even fit our sofa through the front door.
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