For months, my husband forced me to wear long sleeves to hide the bruises on my arms. In court, his lawyer called me a liar and demanded proof. I stood, removed my jacket, and named the age, direction, and weapon behind every mark. “Objection?” I asked calmly. As a former forensic doctor, I dismantled his story one injury at a time.
The first time Adrian broke my skin, he brought me roses and a cream-colored blouse with sleeves to the wrists. By the sixth month, my closet looked like winter, even in July, and my body had become the crime scene he believed no one could read. “Smile,” he whispered outside Courtroom Four, tightening his fingers…