When she did return on time, she carried herself with quiet triumph, as though proving obedience was a choice, not an obligation. The way she closed her bedroom door felt deliberate, a line drawn. Each lock on that door was a reminder she had a life we weren’t invited to share.
Our questions grew sharper. “What are you hiding from us?” I demanded one night. She looked at me with wet, defiant eyes. “You couldn’t begin to understand,” she said again, the same phrase over and over, like a shield held firmly against every accusation. It broke my heart.