tightened. If Eli cried, it was my failure to “toughen him up.” If I asked for help, I was “nagging.”
Joan was the architect of his ego. “You’re lucky he puts up with you,” she’d told me once, her pearls gleaming like teeth. I realized then that I wasn’t a wife; I was a subordinate in a family firm I never signed up for.
The final fracture wasn’t a screaming continue reading …
