For years, my mother wore long sleeves even in the middle of summer. One day I finally asked, “Did Dad do something to you?” She went pale, closed the door, and said something that frightened me even more…

By then I was sixteen, old enough to imagine the worst possible explanations.

What if my mother was afraid of my father?

What if she was hiding something beneath those sleeves?

Then I started remembering other moments.

When my father raised his voice, my mother sometimes became very quiet.

When he suddenly reached toward her, she occasionally flinched.

And once, when I overheard them arguing in the kitchen, my mother said,

“I don’t want the children to ever find out.”

My father replied,

“Then they won’t.”

That was enough.

In my mind, the whole picture was already complete.

I began looking at my father differently. He had always been kind to me. He had never hit me. But I kept telling myself that

people could be very different behind closed doors.

One evening, my mother was folding laundry.

My father was still at work. I walked into their bedroom.