Emily laughed softly.
Then the fabric slipped from her shoulders.
I stopped.
There were several faded marks along her back and side.
They were old.
But the way Emily immediately pulled the dress back around herself told me they carried memories she had never wanted me to see.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
I gently took her hands.
“Emily. Look at me.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“What happened?”
For several seconds, she couldn’t answer.
Then she finally said one name.
“Richard.”
Her stepfather.
Richard Caldwell.
The same man who had helped with our wedding expenses.
The same man who had posed beside Emily for family photographs just hours earlier.
The same man who had raised a glass at the reception and told everyone how proud he was of her.
I sat beside my wife.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me.”
Emily stared at the floor.
“It started when I was a teenager.”
Her voice grew quieter.
“Things at home weren’t always what they looked like from the outside. Richard could be controlling. When Mom wasn’t around, he made me feel like everything was somehow my fault.”
