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

“Listen to me,” he said, eyes fixed ahead. “You slipped in the shower. That’s what happened. You’re clumsy. You hear me?”

I nodded. Nodding was safer than anything else.

At the hospital, the lights were harsh, almost painful. A nurse asked questions, but Jason answered smoothly, confidently—as though he had practiced this story before.

“She fell,” he said. “Bathroom accident.”

I stayed silent. Silence had protected me before. Silence had kept things from getting worse.

Then the doctor came in.

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