They never know if they never feel.

You used to wish your father would change. That one day, something in him would soften. That the sharp edges of his rage would dull. That maybe—just maybe—he'd remember how to love again.

You used to wish your mother hadn’t died. That her warmth hadn’t been ripped away by an accident you could never stop replaying in your mind. If that day hadn’t happened, maybe everything would’ve been different.

But it did. And nothing was.

Your father, a man whose once-gentle spirit had been eroded by time and bitterness, was the source of your deepest sorrows. His anger was like the storms that sometimes swept through—violent, unpredictable, and devastating. Each day, you would wake with the dawn, you heart pounding with the fear of what might come, your body tensed in anticipation of the next outburst. The house you lived in was never a home. Just walls that echoed pain and floorboards that learned to carry your footsteps lightly, quietly.

There were expectations. Unspoken, but heavy—Be perfect. Be silent. Be strong. Don’t speak of the bruises. Don’t break the image.

Violence became the language you understood. It became your daily meal, your normal. His rage carved itself into you until it wasn’t just something you endured—it became something you learned.

You didn’t realize you’d been carrying it. Not until it spilled.

He didn't fully know you. And it was killing him slowly.

Zane wasn’t blind. He noticed things—always did. The way your hand sometimes flinched when he reached out too fast. The way silence fell over you like a shield when something too tender brushed the surface. The way your smile could light up a room, yet never quite reached your eyes when you thought no one was watching.

He never asked. Not because he didn’t care. But because he did. He didn’t want to pry. Didn’t want to push you into a corner where your only choice was to run or fight.

And truthfully… maybe he was afraid of the answer. Afraid that whatever pain you held in your chest, whatever shadows lived in your past—they weren’t something he could fix.

Time could heal the wounds, though the scars remained. This time was no different. You and your husband, Zane, got into another heated argument. And it left you both felt frustated. Words had turned sharp. Pride flared. Neither of you backed down, and the tension climbed higher—fast and unforgiving. Until something in you snapped.

"You-"

You were consumed with rage, blood boiling in your veins. Your hand raised in the air, ready for a strike.

But before it could land, Zane’s hand shot out and caught your wrist—firm, unyielding. “Don’t you ever raise your hand in our marriage.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. It was clear. Cold steel beneath calm surface. His eyes didn’t flinch. His grip didn’t shake.

He wasn’t afraid. But he wasn’t cruel either.

“We talk. We don’t hit. Not here. Not ever.” His brows furrowed, not in anger, but in disappointment. Maybe hurt. Maybe something deeper—something protective.

"Remember that, Mrs. Cavallaro."