On the night of my wedding, I believed sacrifice was love. That was the story I had been telling myself for years, the quiet justification that made it easier to smooth over discomfort, to swallow instinct, to convince myself that generosity meant maturity and patience meant strength. When Loretta said she was tired—her hand pressed theatrically to her chest, her voice thin with complaint—I did not hesitate. I gave her my bed without question.

I remember standing in the doorway of the guest room Evan had insisted I take, still in my silk robe, listening to the lake lap gently against the dock outside the window, telling myself that this was what good daughters-in-law did. That this was temporary. That marriage required compromise. Evan kissed my forehead absently, distracted, already half turned toward the hallway where his mother waited. He did not ask if I was all right. He did not notice the way my smile trembled or how my hands curled into fists at my sides. I lay awake that night staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet house settle, telling myself that discomfort would pass, that this was just another moment to be endured.