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Twenty-five years ... twenty-three of which she had been under the impression she had a good and fulfilling relationship with her husband. They had two children, a son in the Air Force and a daughter, a college student at Virginia Tech.
She noticed changes in his attitude over the last several years, especially after the events of September 11th. He'd become cold, very cold, and it unnerved her. If someone died, his response was "Oh, well". He fought their son, and then their daughter, who had always taken up for him. Within the last year, her emotions turned to dislike, then hatred as she resented his staid and silly notions. Times had changed, but it seemed William Wainwright had regressed.
Tall and average in appearance, Wainwright swore everyone had dropped their lives, so to speak, just to piss him off or hurt him as paranoia began to rule him. He believed his family, co-workers, and even the guys at the firehouse where they volunteered, all seemed to make it their lot in life to make him miserable. His daughter even swore to him that he was bipolar; while his wife, Rachel, was sure he was another Wainwright male. She swore each successive generation got worse.