Every woman my father ever wanted...
Every woman my father ever wanted became expert at hiding bruises — except my mother, who uncovered them for all to see the truth of the man he was so expert at hiding.
When she got away from him for the final time — her left eye bulging from its socket; his arms cuffed behind his back as he lay on the marble floor of the women's bathroom in the Toronto Courthouse — there were gasps. Unintentional sounds escaping the mouths of people paid to deal daily with violence: cops, bailiffs, bondsmen, and the judge who moments earlier declared Edward Stewart "Harmless," and to be released without delay.
Sometimes, I think of those men. But more often I think of their wives and lovers and the answers they heard when they asked that evening "And how was your day, dear?"