On our wedding night, I lowered my wife’s dress and froze at the faded scars across her back. “Emily, what happened?” I whispered. She trembled, looked away, and finally answered softly, “My stepfather did it.”

She wiped her cheek.

“And afterward he always reminded me that people respected him.”
I understood what she meant.

“He made you believe nobody would take your side?”

Emily nodded.

I felt anger rising, but I pushed it aside.

This wasn’t about what I wanted to do.

It was about what Emily needed.

“Did you ever tell your mother?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“Richard convinced her I was going through a difficult phase. He made everything sound like a misunderstanding.”

Then Emily gave a sad little laugh.

“He was very good at making himself look reasonable.”

Suddenly, something Richard had said during the reception came back to me.

He had shaken my hand and said quietly:

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