My mother never went swimming at the beach, never visited beauty salons, and even during medical appointments, she insisted that I leave the examination room.
Whenever I asked why Dad was so strict, she always gave me the same answer.
“Sarah, please don’t interfere.”
I got married and had children of my own, but that question never stopped bothering me.
Especially after one particular incident.
Ten years ago, my mother tripped while walking in the garden.
I tried to pull up her sleeve to see whether she’d injured her arm.
She jerked away in such terror that it was as if I were about to hurt her.
“Don’t touch me, Sarah! Your father will be angry!”
I froze.
That day, I decided to confront my father.
“Dad, why won’t you let Mom dress the way she wants?”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he said: