My husband, Richard, was upstairs taking another private phone call. Recently, he had begun disappearing into his study and closing the door behind him. Whenever I asked who he was speaking to, he said it was related to work. If I questioned him further, he accused me of worrying too much.
The night before, Richard had examined the receipts from Ethan’s birthday dinner. He frowned at the cost of the cake and candles as though celebrating our son had been an unreasonable expense.
My sister Caroline called that morning.
“How did Ethan’s birthday go?” she asked.
“Quietly. Richard barely spoke to him.”
Caroline had never hidden her concern about how Richard treated Ethan.
“I don’t like the way he talks to that boy,” she said. “I’ve been telling you that for years.”
“He’s just old-fashioned.”
“No, Mary. Old-fashioned is expecting discipline and responsibility. What Richard does is different.”
