If I questioned him, he called me ungrateful.
If I cried, he called me dramatic.
If I stayed quiet, he said I was finally learning to respect him.
The physical violence came gradually, separated by days or weeks in which he could be almost tender. A shove during an argument. A hand gripping my arm too tightly. A slap followed by an apology so sincere that, for a few hours, I wanted to believe it.
Afterward, he would make tea for me, sit beside me, and speak softly about the future.
“We have a beautiful life, Amal,” he would say. “Don’t destroy it over one bad moment.”
Eventually, I stopped telling myself that the bad moments were separate from the beautiful life.
They were part of it.
They were the price he expected me to pay.
The morning everything began to change, Lina came into my bedroom holding a drawing.
