I was a bad wife. You gave me a house, and I wanted a bigger one. You fed me sustenance, and I threw it out, demanding decadence that would clog the arteries of my heart. I lost my temper, lost my patience, lost my ring when all it did was remind me of the things I couldn’t have. I lusted after many men, refusing to admit that none of them would make me happy. I was a bad wife. I begged, stole, and borrowed when you gave me all I needed. I turned my back when you called my name. I ran. I misunderstood every gift, misheard every word you whispered soft in my ear. I hated you for your wisdom. I hated you for your strength. I got fat, and you still loved me–no, loved me more–and I hated you for that, too. I was a bad wife. When I looked at my full stomach, ran my hands over the stretched out skin, I wished I was carrying a stranger’s child, as though the son you’d given me wasn’t enough. I never told you that, but you knew. You knew it all. You listened even when I didn’t speak. You let me believe your every kindness was a cruelty. I was a bad wife. I asked too many questions, and for every one you answered, I asked a thousand more. I dyed my hair, tattooed my arms, squeezed my frame into leather, shoved my feet in stilettos, thinking this would change who I was–to you, to me–but it didn’t. You still loved me, and not just the idea of me, unlike all the men I had pulled onto my path. I was a bad wife. I wanted to blame you for my failings. I wanted to say that things between us were hard because they just were and not because I couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t understand your character. You were the only one who saw through my skin, to the chaos and mess of my insides, and didn’t flee, and still, I searched for others. I was a bad wife. When I was faithless, you were faithful, and I hated you for that, too.