***
Rick was different back then, or at least I thought he was.
He worked late in the garage, which he called his workshop, but he didn’t like anyone opening the door without knocking. I told myself that every man needs a quiet corner.
Rick was different back then.
Sometimes my husband would take long drives on Sunday afternoons and return without saying where he’d been. Sometimes his phone would ring, and he’d walk out to the porch, his voice low and his shoulders tight.
« Who was that? » I’d ask when he came back in.
« Just work stuff, Marlene. Nothing to worry about. »
I didn’t worry. I trusted him.
That was the version of me I still miss the most.
« Who was that? »
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