“He came every day,” she continued. “Whenever I told him to leave, he said, ‘I’m going to marry you, not your arms.’” Her fear of sudden movements and loud sounds, she explained, was a lasting reaction to the fire—not fear of him.
I finally understood. My father had never been the source of her pain; he had stayed beside her through it. A week later, on another scorching Sunday, my mother walked into the kitchen wearing a short-sleeved shirt. My father simply smiled. And for the first time, she didn’t hide her scars. What I had mistaken for fear had been old pain—and behind the secret was love.
