For years, my mother wore long sleeves, even when summer temperatures reached nearly forty degrees. When I was twelve, I finally asked, “Mom, aren’t you hot?” She glanced at my father before smiling and saying, “I’m used to it.” That look stayed with me.
As I grew older, I noticed more. She never went swimming, covered her arms at the beach, and pulled away whenever someone touched her left arm. Once, my grandmother suggested she roll up her sleeves, and my father sharply told her to wear whatever she wanted. I began wondering what they were hiding.
At sixteen, I overheard my parents arguing. My mother whispered, “I don’t want the children to ever find out.” My father replied, “Then they won’t.” I imagined the worst. Whenever he raised his voice, she became quiet, and sometimes she flinched when he reached toward her.
