I looked at my sister, at the towel she still wore, at the expensive phone on the counter that she had insisted she couldn’t afford to replace, at the carefully painted nails and the face I had comforted a thousand times.
For the first time, I saw how often I had mistaken her ability to make me feel guilty for evidence that she was suffering.
“What exactly has Andrew done to you?”
I asked.
She opened her mouth.
“Has he touched you?”
“No.”
“Has he flirted with you?”
“He—”
“Has he encouraged you to walk around our home dressed like that?”
She looked away.
“Then why are you making this about him?”
“Because you married him, and you think he’s always right.”
“No,” I said.
“I married him because he has shown me, consistently, that I can trust him.
