Why is it that he cannot listen? Why is it that he demands on refusing my opinion, no matter how fundamental the topic? Why is it that he treats me like porcelain, as though I may break any moment?
I shall not deny that it hurts to be so undermined and repressed; cloistered into a corner, disallowed to see the truth, the light. It hurts to not be part of his world, something I have taken for granted as being a constant.
But, when I saw his face, disgusted and angered as he leant against the chair, I knew. I knew that he was shutting me out. Shutting me out of what is good and right. I should have given Mr Bricker less cause to advance on me, but how was I know that he would come into my bedroom uninvited? How was I to know that he would threaten my marriage; both the bed and the life?
I feel nothing but regret, coursing through my veins. I know that he is angry, ashamed of me. I know he wishes that I had done less to persuade Mr Bricker's sexual advances. But what shame is there in feeling acknowledged and good; wholesome and a help? I never wanted to be with him in that way; not at all my intention. I only wanted to be seen for who I am and not who I am expected to be.
If I had wanted to be a hostess and to be boxed into a corner, I would not have taken up Robert's offer of marriage on that night when he knelt in the darkening evening light and held my hand softly.
I know that now. I know.
But I must move forward. With or without his hand in mine.