She lay curled under a thin blanket, every breath sending a stabbing pain through her skull.
The doctors had warned her husband clearly: after the concussion and head injury, she needed weeks of strict rest. No stress. No housework. But inside her own home, their words meant nothing.
The door burst open with a bang. Her husband stomped inside, irritation written all over his face.
“Take off those bandages and get to the kitchen!” he barked. “My mother and sister are hungry. What kind of wife just lies around all day, useless?”
His voice was sharp, each word slicing deeper than the pain in her head. She felt tears burn behind her eyes but forced them back.
She had learned long ago that crying only made him crueler. Her lips trembled, yet before she could muster a reply, another sound interrupted—slow, firm footsteps in the hallway.
The door opened again. This time, it was her mother. A sturdy suitcase dangled from her hand. She looked first at her daughter lying pale and weak in bed, then at the man who dared raise his voice to her in such a moment.
For a long, tense second, silence filled the room.
Then—without warning—she stepped forward and struck him.
The crack of the slap echoed off the walls, louder than any shout. He staggered back, eyes wide, too stunned to speak.
