She knew I disliked conflict. She knew I would be humiliated rather than belligerent. She knew I would leave quietly and try to manage my feelings privately rather than make a scene. She had learned these things about me over years of careful observation, and she had used them.
That is what I mean when I say patience was my mistake.
Not generosity. Not kindness. Not love. Patience with behavior that should have had consequences years earlier.
I had watched Tiffany rearrange my table settings and call it practicality. I had heard her tell Peter that I made things awkward and said nothing. I had listened to her examine the calluses on my sewing hands and laugh and told myself that married people protect each other even when they shouldn’t, and that Peter needed his marriage more than he needed to correct his wife, and that I was old enough to absorb small slights without requiring apology.
