whenever the subject came up.
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.”
