There's a kind of anger that doesn't announce itself. It doesn't raise its voice or slam doors. It shows up quietly — in the way you answer someone's question with a little less warmth than usual, in the way you "forget" to return a call, in the way you smile while saying something that was never quite meant as a kindness. That's the anger this passage has been speaking to me about lately. Not the big, dramatic kind — the kind we can easily name — but the anger that lives in