He walked the halls of this house like a stranger. Like he hadn’t sat at that dinner table biting his tongue at age fifteen because he never knew what innocuous comment would trigger one of his father’s towering rages. Like he hadn’t hidden in that bathroom and pretended to be sick to avoid getting dragged to church at age thirteen, when the sermons had started to make him hate himself. Like he hadn’t stood frozen around that corner listening to screaming arguments at age eight, when he’d first become conscious of the fact that marriage didn’t have to mean liking each other.
