I had not yet possessed a lover and had no understanding of jealousy. I had not yet been consumed by passion’s obsession. I had not yet owned love or been owned by love, but I was beginning to understand. I understood, as a child understands, that something that was mine should not be taken by another. And though my husband was not yet mine, in my tender heart I knew that I would never share my lover. I would rather die than share him, I thought. And though I resented the men’s hypocrisy, I was beginning to understand the rage of betrayal. I understood that love could not be shared. I understood why a man could be driven to mindless violence when his honor was shamed by his wife’s disloyalty. I understood the humiliation of shared love.