Theresa and I had done our share of shouting before the quarantine, sure. Once I dropped a plate in the sink. It broke. There were tears in my eyes and I said things that I never thought I could say, things I never thought I could believe. Things I didn’t believe then. You don’t love me. You don’t want me here anymore. Shouting wasn’t in Theresa’s nature. But she was ruthless. It wasn’t even what she said, which was usually something like, Stop it, now or You’re not being yourself. It was how she said it, with her dark brow making a precipitous ridge between her narrowed eyes. Her anger was white and cold. It sent seams of ice through my heart.
