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Don’t speak to him.
Smile more.
Cut your hair this way.
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You belong to me.
By the time I finished reading, I felt sick.
That night, I showed everything to my mother.
The photographs.
The letters.
The names.
She sat silently for a long time.
Then she whispered:
“I thought I was the only one.”
Everything changed after that.
She explained how charming my father had been when they met. How his requests initially felt harmless.
Wear this dress.
Pose for this photo.
Act out this scene.
At first it felt romantic.
Over time it became something else.
The role became more important than the person.
The fantasy mattered more than reality.
And eventually she realized he wasn’t in love with her.
He was in love with Julia.
A character he kept trying to recreate.
Again.
And again.
And again.
When I told my older sister, Monica, she wasn’t surprised.
“He tried it with me too,” she said.
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