He rarely smiled, spoke in a short, stern manner, and looked so cold in photographs that people often asked my mother,
“Margaret, are you really happy with him?”
My mother always gave the same answer.
“Don’t look at Robert’s face if you want to understand him.”
But no one understood what she meant.
My mother worked at a small clothing factory for more than forty years. Every Friday, she received her paycheck, came home,
and placed the sealed envelope in front of my father.
He would open it, count the money, and carry it into their bedroom. My mother was left with almost nothing. I first noticed it
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