It seemed clear that C’s anger was protecting him from grief. It was like smacking your finger with a hammer to distract yourself from a migraine.

It took me longer to wonder if his anger was protecting me as well. Not in the obvious ways, of course. Being the object of his anger—silent and wide-eyed, fists white-knuckled and clenched—made me vigilant all the time, my shoulders hunched around my neck. But his anger saved me from looking directly at his pain, which would have been like staring at the sun.

More than anything, his anger buffered me from doubt. The angrier he got, the harder it became to imagine another version of my life in which I’d stayed.