Patrick owns a gun, and for more than a quarter of a century. He owned a gun when we met, when I introduced him to my girls, when he dropped to a knee with not one but three rings in his pocket because he knew we were a package deal, when I trusted him enough to tell him about the time I was dragged into the bushes at gunpoint. I went to therapy for years because of that gun, and all that time Patrick looked in my eyes and lied. A lie of omission, but still. My husband owns a gun.
