And what it had taken for us to get inside that theater at all.

Owen is thirty-eight years old and one of the gentlest people I have ever known.

I don’t mean weak.

He’s six-foot-two, works construction, and can carry a sheet of drywall up a staircase by himself.

But he avoids confrontation almost instinctively.

On our third date, he ordered a medium-rare steak.

It arrived completely overcooked.

He looked disappointed for half a second.

Then he ate every bite.

“Your steak is wrong,” I whispered.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s practically gray.”

“It’s still good.”

When the waiter asked whether everything was okay, Owen smiled.

“Perfect. Thanks.”

After the waiter walked away, I stared at him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged.

“It wasn’t worth making a problem.”

At first, I thought it was sweet.

It took me nearly two years to realize it wasn’t really kindness.

It was fear.

During our eight years of marriage, I watched Owen accept the wrong drive-through order more times than I could count.

He paid for an unnecessary car repair rather than challenge the mechanic.

He loaned his sister Lisa two thousand dollars even though both of us knew she probably wouldn’t repay it.

When our neighbor built a fence several feet onto our property, Owen looked at it and said,

“Well… at least it’s a nice fence.”

When his boss promoted someone with six months of experience instead of Owen, who had been doing the job for years, he said,

“Maybe the guy needed the opportunity more.”

Whenever someone raised their voice, Owen became quiet.

His shoulders stiffened.

His thumb rubbed repeatedly against the side of his finger.

One night, I finally asked him about it.