I like to tell myself I never knew what my husband was doing in the basement.
I like to pretend I never found the padlocked door, never heard the cries from behind it, never saw the fingers reaching from underneath.
I like to imagine he had a reasonable explanation. Instead, he told me the truth.
Now, as he prepares the implements for his next trip down the stairs, I approach him from behind and lift the knife. I’ll do what I have to. What I vowed.
Ever the supportive wife, I hand him the freshly sharpened blade.
“Use this one.”
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