By the time we returned home, I was itching to find my wife, to ensure she was safe and unharmed. I found her in my apartment, sitting on the sofa, and for a moment, I soaked in the sight of her, feeling some of my anxiety lessen.
When she turned her tear-stained face to me, my anger fired.
“What happened?” I demanded.
Her arms were wrapped around her middle as she rose from the sofa. “Your mother is what happened. She isn’t a nice person, Gavril.”
I knew it. I didn’t even know what she had done, and it didn’t surprise me. “What did she say?”
With a sob, Naomi hurried across the room and I caught her in my arms, not caring about whether or not she took my action another way. “Tell me,” I said gently, my hand running down the length of her back.
She did, her words muffled as she pressed into my chest. I caught that my mother had told our sordid family history, pretty much calling Naomi a fake and a whore who was only out to get me. With each confession, I could feel the noose getting tighter around my neck, wanting to berate my mother for what she had done to make Naomi feel “welcome.”
That bitch.
Finally, after her words ran dry, I pulled back to look into her eyes. “You understand that you are my wife. No one, and I mean no one, is going to hurt you.”
“Is it true?” she whispered, her eyes searching mine. “What she said?”
I wanted to lie to her. For the first time, I wanted to lie about who I was and who my family was. But I couldn’t. Not to her. Not now.
“Yes.”
Naomi sucked in a breath. “Oh God.”
I framed her face with my hands, desperate to try to make her understand that she was mine. I was going to protect what was mine. “I will defend you with my life,” I said softly, brushing the remaining tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. It was the only vow I could give her.