He hit me every day over the tiniest things. burnt toast, a late reply, a wrong look, You made me do this, he did hiss, One night, panic swallowed me whole and I collapsed, At the hospital, he said to them, She slipped in the shower

He knew exactly when to soften, when to promise change, when to remind me how much worse things could be if I were alone. Over time, I stopped asking whether what he did was wrong and started asking what I had done to deserve it.

I got good at hiding—long sleeves in summer, makeup blending carefully along my jawline, rehearsed smiles before seeing friends. I learned to apologize without thinking, to anticipate his moods, to make myself smaller so there would be less of me to provoke him.

The violence stopped being explosive. It became controlled. Precise. Predictable. And somehow, that was more frightening than rage. Rage burns out. Control doesn’t.

The night everything broke open started like dozens before it. I dropped a glass while washing dishes. It shattered against the tile, the sound sharp and final. Jason went very still.

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