"She would be ashamed of you." That was the first sentence. And somewhere, even as it came out, a voice in my head was whispering stop, stop, he's drunk, you know this is cruel, stop. But I didn't stop. "She would be ashamed of who you've become. She would be ashamed of what you're doing to us. She would be ashamed that her son, her beautiful boy, is standing in a kitchen so drunk he can't stand up straight, fighting with the woman she begged him to marry." His face went blank. Not shocked. Not furious. Just — empty. Like someone had pulled a plug somewhere behind his eyes. He didn't yell back. He didn't defend himself. He walked past me, into the living room, sat down on the couch without taking off his shoes, and stared at a television that wasn't on. I stood in the kitchen and realized my hands were shaking. He didn't speak to me that night. He didn't speak to me the next morning. And I had no idea it was going to stay that way.