Musiccosmos

Eden Boudreau (Photo: Jessica Darmanin) On a cold morning last November, my husband and I were snuggled in bed, spooning. The house was quiet, our three sons still snoring peacefully in their own beds. As we began to stir, my husband’s lips started searching for the soft spot on my neck, the one between my ear and the curve of my shoulder that always sent shivers ricocheting through my whole body. But this time, I flinched. Silent alarms went off in my mind, and I automatically curled my body into myself—and away from him. Even as the onslaught of fear and shame lit every nerve in my body on fire, I dared a glance behind me. My husband lay frozen, his hands now tucked away and the emotions he tried so very hard to hide—a mix of guilt, hurt and empathy—clear in his eyes. There was even a pinch of anger, though that, I knew, wasn’t intended for me. It was aimed at the man who had violently raped me. “I was reasonably sure he was neither a catfish nor a murderer” My husband and I h...