That night, I could not fall asleep for a long time.
By then, I was seventeen, old enough to imagine the worst possible explanations.
What if Mom was afraid of Dad?
What if she was hiding something underneath those long sleeves?
Then I started remembering other moments.
Whenever Dad raised his voice, Mom sometimes went completely silent.
When he suddenly reached toward her, she occasionally flinched.
And once, when I overheard them arguing in the kitchen, Mom said,
“I never want the kids to find out.”
Dad replied,
“Then they won’t.”
That was enough for me.
In my mind, I had already put the whole story together.
I started 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 completely different behind closed doors.
One evening, Mom was folding clothes in the bedroom.
