Because I was his wife.
Because he cared.
The first time he slipped cash into my coat pocket, I found it before leaving the house.
I put every dollar back in his desk.
Then I left a note.
I want to be your partner, Russell. Not your charity case.
That evening, he entered the kitchen holding the note.
I braced myself.
Instead, he kissed my forehead.
“All right.”
He never did it again.
After that, he asked.
What groceries did I like?
Did I miss my neighborhood?
Did the size of the house make me uncomfortable?
Did I want to redecorate anything?
Did I want my own bank account?
Sometimes his questions embarrassed me.
Sometimes they made me cry when I was alone.
Because Russell was doing something no one had done for me in years.
He was making room.
Not simply in his house.
In his life.
One Tuesday afternoon in October, we stopped at a red light.
