Whenever someone raised their voice, Owen became quiet.
His shoulders stiffened.
His thumb rubbed repeatedly against the side of his finger.
One night, I finally asked him about it.
“Why do you let people walk over you?”
He stared at the ceiling.
“Because the alternative is worse.”
“What alternative?”
He looked at me.
For a moment, I saw something old and frightened behind his eyes.
“Becoming my father.”
Then he rolled over and turned off the light.
I had met his father, Frank, only a handful of times before Owen and I married.
Frank was a large man.
Louder than everyone around him.
His temper could change the atmosphere of a room instantly.
At one barbecue, he shouted at a grill because the charcoal wouldn’t light.
At a restaurant, he
berated a waitress because his coffee wasn’t hot enough.
Another time, he yelled at Owen’s mother because she had parked too close to the curb.
