we moved to your hometown of Scranton, PA. I knew no one there, but everyone knew me as the wife, a title I wore like a mask.  We bought an old farmhouse at the end of a dirt road where the postman was my only guest. After a few months, I began to talk to stray dogs, cats, and the wind and the clouds.  Alone, I saw ghosts in the window, a stranger in the mirror.  You were gone all day, working from dawn til night, while I was supposed to wash the dishes, clean the house, weed the garden where only the turnips thrived. And to make our dinner, of course, usually burgers or tuna with Hamburger Helper, or hotdogs with Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice. Some days I never left the couch. When I complained I was depressed, you said I was just a little stressed. Such things happen with new brides, you’d read in the advice column of Christian Life. We needed to save money, but on special occasions you bought me gifts: white roses (the color of purity and faithfulness, according to the florist) or “proper clothes” from Sears Roebuck & Company (you never liked my taste). On Sundays, you dressed me in voluminous gowns. Wide at the hips, I looked like a three-tiered cake—the kind placed in the display case to be seen, not sliced or served with a warm cup of tea on a wintry night.