It wasn’t.
It was small.
Richard chose the restaurants. Richard chose the paint colors. Richard decided which friends we’d see and which ones were a bad influence. Richard decided I’d stop working when Grant was born. Richard reviewed the grocery receipts every Sunday night at the kitchen table. With a pen. Circling things.
Why did you buy the name-brand peanut butter, Joan?
Why did you go to Target twice this week?
Why do you need another dress?
And I said nothing.
For twenty years.
I told myself it was easier. I told myself it kept the peace. I told myself it was better for Grant to grow up in a house without fighting.
So there was no fighting.
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