Normally, Owen would have said nothing.
That was who he had trained himself to be.
The man who tolerated.
The man who absorbed discomfort.
The man terrified that speaking firmly would somehow turn him into Frank.
I didn’t expect him to intervene.
I didn’t even want him to if it was going to cost him emotionally.
So I faced the screen.
There was popcorn in my hair.
My shirt collar was damp.
My back hurt from being kicked.
And I told myself I was not going to cry during Spider-Man.
