Not some dramatic transformation.
Just a seventy-year-old woman slowly learning that she was allowed to take up space.
One room at a time.
One meal at a time.
One suggestion at a time.
I returned to the kitchen.
Gabriel was washing the dishes.
I stood beside him.
“I’m not your opponent.”
“I know.”
“I’m your wife.”
“I know.”
He stopped washing for a moment.
“I forgot what that meant.”
I waited.
“Not that I forgot you were my wife. I forgot what it means to have a wife instead of having a household that simply organizes itself around me.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
He rinsed another plate.
“Patricia is extremely effective.”
“Yes.”
“Did she call you?”
“No. I called her.”
“How long had you planned tonight?”
“Since yesterday morning.”
“You built all of that in a day?”
“I already had the records.”
He looked at me.
