My father immediately interrupted.
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“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?
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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.”
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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
