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…
One afternoon, my grandmother said,
“Mary, at least roll up your sleeves. It’s boiling out here.”
My father immediately interrupted.
“Let her wear whatever she wants.”
His voice was sharp. Everyone went quiet. I looked at my mother. She lowered her eyes.
That night, I couldn’t sleep for a long time.
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.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
She smiled.
“Of course.”
I didn’t know how to say it. Finally, I asked directly.
“Did Dad do something to you?”
The smile disappeared from her face. For several seconds, she stood completely still.
Then she slowly closed the bedroom door. My heart began pounding.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Your clothes. Your arms. You’re always hiding them. When Dad talks loudly, you go quiet. When we ask questions, you always look at him first…”
My mother went pale.
“You’ve been thinking this all these years?”
I started crying.
