THE GEOGRAPHY OF SUBMISSION
I have always known my husband, Jake, was a “mama’s boy,” but that term is too soft for the reality. He didn’t just love Lorraine; he was tethered to her by a psychological umbilical cord that had never been cut. When her name flashed on his phone, his posture changed.He would straighten his back and lower his voice, appearing as a man who was perpetually waiting for a reprimand.
For six years, our marriage survived on a simple buffer: two hours of highway. We lived in our town; Lorraine stayed in hers. Geography was the only boundary Jake was capable of maintaining.
