She explained that, early in the marriage, she had confided in a relative. The relative listened sympathetically, then advised her to be more patient.
“He’s your husband,” the woman had said. “Don’t provoke him. Men can be difficult when they’re under pressure.”
Anna had gone home feeling that somehow the responsibility belonged to her.
The next time Thomas hurt her, she told no one.
Over the years, silence became a habit.
She wore high-necked blouses and long sleeves whenever possible. She learned which cosmetics could conceal discoloration. She developed explanations for bruises and injuries.
When people asked questions, she smiled.
A fall.
A cupboard door.
An accident in the garden.
She became so practiced at hiding the truth that sometimes she could almost convince herself.
Then she had children.
And everything became more complicated.
“I thought about leaving,” she told me. “More times than I can count.”
She paused, wiping her cheeks.
