Silently, I would stand up and go to the stove. Arguing was pointless. I loved him, or at least the version of Amari I remembered from the first few years of our marriage—the cheerful, strong guy who admired my intelligence and proudly bragged to his friends that his wife was going to be a scholar. But the years passed, and admiration turned into irritation, especially after we moved into the condo he inherited from his father, right next door to his mother, Mama Nyla.