And yet, some part of her still expected a sudden movement to bring pain.
I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed, leaving space between us.
“Look at me, Anna.”
She could not.
“Please.”
Slowly, she turned her face toward mine.
I reached for her hand, allowing her to decide whether she wanted to take it.
She did.
Her fingers were cold.
“Who hurt you?” I asked.
She stared at our joined hands.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she whispered the name of the man who had stolen her youth.
“Thomas.”
Her first husband.
The man her family had once described as a respectable businessman.
The man who had given her a large house, expensive clothes, and a life that appeared comfortable to everyone who looked at it from the outside.
The man who had spent years making her afraid to close her own bedroom door.
