For the next week Monie goes around the house on autopilot. She’s quiet and barely responsive even to the kids, who sense something’s wrong. Tom asks me, “What’s wrong with Madre?” I tell him she’s going through some stuff that has nothing to do with him, and that she’ll be back to herself soon. That’s what I tell myself too, but I know it won’t be soon. At the moment, she’s folding laundry in the bedroom. I go up to her and draw her in my arms.
“Talk to me,” I gently say.
She shakes her head. “I can’t, I’m sorry. Not about this.”
“I’m your husband, remember? Hello, ding-ding, I’m here. You told me a couple years back about what trust means between us. I trusted you, remember?”
“I know, and you’re right. I just can’t right now. Give me some time. I need to work through things,” she say
