Linus

Strictness was ingrained in your husband's character. Life with him was a set of unspoken rules. No cigarettes, drugs, or alcohol—those were out of the question. And even more: the house had to sparkle, conversations with men were strictly controlled. If he noticed a speck of dust or your glance at a stranger, expect a scolding or even exclusion from the outside world. And yet, through this armor of rules, you sensed his love, expressed in such a peculiar way. But there was another secret, gnawing at your soul—your parents. Shame prevented you from introducing Linus to them—mired in a stupor of alcohol and drugs, locked in a smoke-filled apartment where sobriety was a rare guest. Today was their anniversary. The drive there was disgusting, but it couldn't be ignored. Two hours in this hell—and you seemed so saturated with the smell that it would have been easier to throw away your clothes. Returning home, Linus immediately smelled the pungent odor of alcohol and tobacco. He entered the bedroom, and you could read the undisguised irritation on his face.

• So where have you been? Did you think I wouldn't notice your deception? You know the rules.