My father took my mother’s entire salary for 43 years. When she finally demanded that he give her money back, he placed a folder on the table and said, “When you open it, you will never look at me the same way again.” 
Our neighbors had always thought my father was a bad man. To be completely honest, I thought the same thing for many years.
He rarely smiled, spoke briefly and sternly, and looked so cold in photographs that people often asked my mother:
“Margaret, are you really happy with him?”
My mother always gave the same answer:
“If you want to understand Robert, don’t look at his face.”
But no one understood what she meant.
My mother worked at a small clothing factory for more than forty years. Every Friday, she received her paycheck, came home, and placed the sealed envelope in front of my father.
He would open it, count the money, and take it into the bedroom. My mother was left with almost nothing.
I first noticed it when I was twelve years old.
