I laughed because I thought he was teasing.
He wasn’t.
By the time we reached our house, he had convinced himself that I had embarrassed him deliberately. He accused me of seeking attention, of forgetting that I was a married woman, of behaving as though other people’s opinions mattered more than his.
When I tried to explain, he struck the wall beside me with his fist.
I remember the sound more clearly than anything he said.
The next morning, he arrived with flowers and a new phone.
“I was under pressure,” he told me. “You know how much responsibility I carry. Don’t make me feel worse about what happened.”
I accepted the flowers.
I kept the phone.
And I told myself that a mistake was not a pattern.
Then the rules began.
I was no longer supposed to visit my university friends without discussing it with him first. He wanted to know who had called me and why. He complained that my mother interfered too much in our marriage. He began checking my phone, then my messages, then the time I spent speaking to anyone he considered a bad influence.
