On the harder days, I wore discreet protective underwear. I kept the package tucked beneath folded towels in our upstairs bathroom. Only my husband, Richard, knew where it was.
At first, Richard would occasionally tease me about it. I laughed with him because I convinced myself that was simply the way we communicated. If I laughed too, maybe it meant we were still on the same side.
But as time passed, his jokes grew sharper.
Especially when other people were present.
One morning, after he made another remark during brunch, I finally asked him to stop.
“You worry too much, Bel,” he said.
“I’m not worried. I just don’t enjoy being the joke.”
Richard grinned.
“It’s my love language. If I couldn’t tease you, I’d have to hate you.”
I dropped it.
That year, I dropped a lot of things.
I was exhausted. Three babies needed me constantly, and on most days I barely had enough energy to shower, let alone defend myself every time my husband said something insensitive.
