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I have this image of Mom in most arguments with Dad: lips pursed, arms crossed. Silent. She sits on the couch like a pouting child, or leans against the wall in the kitchen. She calls this resisting. I call it passive. She won’t be the first one to walk away from the fight. She waits for Dad to throw his hands wildly into the air, stare at her with his mouth open, sigh, smear one palm across his forehead or push his hair straight up on end. She’s betting he’ll walk down the hall and close himself behind a door.