I always saw your rage eking out of your consciousness. No matter how I worked to control you, I always found your barbarism around the edges. That morning after I’d finally convinced you to quit your job (all that autonomy wasn’t good for you, it gave you too much room to think), I looked up from my newspaper and saw you glowering, your fork in your fist, poised for attack. I kept calm, pretended it didn’t matter, but I was terrified. After all I had done to help you, after staying in this marriage, you still wanted to kill me.