MY HUSBAND'S HIDDEN TRUTH
I wanted to be the one she leaned on, the one she trusted to keep her safe.
They stop at the weaver’s stall a small wooden cart covered in bolts of fabric in every color imaginable. The weaver, an old woman with gray hair and kind eyes, pulls out a bolt of deep blue cotton and holds it up to the light. Quinn’s face lights up, and she reaches out to touch it, her fingers moving slowly over the weave. Lincoln stands beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, and says something that makes her laugh again. I can’t hear what he says, but I know his voice is soft and steady nothing like mine, which still shakes when I talk about what happened.
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