My first husband's buddy touched my crotch, uninvited, unwanted. As he walked by me in my dining room, the back of his hand grazed my skirt. His knuckles tapped, in a subtle move that only a pro could have pulled off. My simultaneous reactions were: 1) That did not happen, and 2) Oh yes, it did. Sensation-wise, sirens blared and horns blasted; and neon arrows and helicopter searchlights pointed at The Spot. My mind might have doubted, but my body knew the score.
The man was a respected manager, trailing a string of whispered allegations from promotion to promotion. He reported to my husband, who'd heard the workplace rumors, but believed his friend. Why not? None of the women could prove a thing.
I didn't tell my husband. He would have said I was mistaken. and that betrayal would have shamed me more than the knuckles did. That's the dark memory.
Here's the new light: That silence said nothing about my spouse, but it spoke volumes about me. I denied him the chance to take my side. I withheld an opportunity for him to love me. By failing to trust him, I betrayed my first husband.