But the blind spot that you have worked to maintain, that you are now training me to have, that tells me to keep quiet and accept that men are allowed certain privileges in marriage, this I cannot accept. Don't tell him to hang on there when I'm upset that he left me and cheated all because--glory of glories--he came back. Don't ask me to remove posts that just might incriminate him if one reads carefully. And please don't call me a "good girl" if, out of respect for you, I do. I don't want to survive unhappily on benzos and caffeine for the sake of making a marriage work. It's too stuffy in here; I need air.
I remember my grandmother's house: the gold shag carpet, the brick red linoleum floors. She served my grandfather like he was a king, bringing him his food, even peeling his bananas for him. And when her dementia debilitated her, the tables turned, and he waited on her. At least she had an excuse.
