This world is too quick to judge and too late to understand
Margaret Atwood
I froze in my tracks, my pulse hammering in my ears. Seeing my father standing in the foyer of the minister's house was like watching the gates of hell swing open. His smile, the one that used to bring me comfort as a little girl, now sent cold dread spiraling down my spine. I instinctively shrank back, my steps faltering as my mind raced to make sense of his sudden presence.
Why was he here? Did he know?
"Zeynep, my daughter," he called out warmly, spreading his arms as if expecting me to run into them.
I wanted to run, all right. Just not toward him.
Every memory of his fury surged forward, unbidden: the sting of his belt against my skin, his booming voice tearing through the house, the way my mother cowered in silence whenever his anger flared. And now, standing here, I was no longer the little girl who had sobbed into her pillow at night. I was a woman who had endured too much, and yet, in his presence, I felt like that helpless child all over again.
"Baba," I whispered, forcing the word out of my dry throat. My legs felt rooted to the floor, but I managed to take a hesitant step forward.
"Come, Zeynep. Don't be shy," he said, his smile unwavering but his eyes sharp, scanning me like a hawk.
I approached him slowly, each step feeling like I was walking toward my own execution. When I was close enough, he enveloped me in a tight embrace. His grip was firm, almost suffocating, as if he were reminding me of his strength, his authority.
"You've been living well here," he said, pulling back just enough to study my face. "You look… different. But good."
I forced a small, tight-lipped smile, knowing better than to respond. My father didn't deal in pleasantries. Compliments from him were rare and often preclude something unpleasant.
"Thank you, Baba," I murmured, keeping my gaze low, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in my voice.
When I was close enough, he pulled me into a tight embrace, his grip too firm, almost crushing. He smelled of tobacco, sweat, and the cheap cologne he always wore—sharp, suffocating, familiar.
"You've been living well here," he said, pulling back just enough to scan me. His eyes darted over my face, my clothes, lingering on my chest with lust before going to my collarbones as if searching for signs of disgrace.
"Yes, Baba," I murmured, my voice trembling.
He cupped my chin roughly, forcing me to look at him. "Hmm. You've grown softer. Is this what marriage does to a girl? Makes her forget her place?"
I didn't respond. Experience had taught me that silence was safer.
"Chief invited me to visit," he said, his tone casual, but I knew better. My father didn't make casual visits. He was a man with intentions, always calculating, always expecting something in return.
The minister approached us then, his booming laughter filling the room as he clasped my father's hand in greeting. "Ah, the great man himself! Hassan, welcome!"
They exchanged pleasantries, but I barely heard them. My mind was racing, trying to decipher what my father knew, why he was here. Had the minister told him about Ibrahim? Or worse, had he brought my father here to punish me in his stead?
The minister clapped my father on the back. "Come, let's sit. Dinner will be served shortly. Zeynep, join us."
I nodded mutely, following them into the dining room.
Sitting across from my father at the grand dining table felt like being dissected under a microscope. His gaze lingered on me far too long, his lips pursed as if weighing unspoken thoughts. The minister, oblivious or indifferent to the tension, prattled on about business, politics, and the state of the nation.
"Zeynep," my father said abruptly, cutting through the minister's chatter. "How have you been?"
"I'm fine, Baba," I replied quickly, my hands gripping my lap under the table. "Everything is fine here."
"Fine?" He raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with disbelief. "You're living in a house like this, married to a man of such standing, and all you have to say is 'fine'?"
I swallowed hard, sensing the shift in his demeanor. This was no ordinary question. This was bait, and I knew better than to rise to it.
"It's been an adjustment," I admitted carefully. "But I'm grateful for everything."
The minister chuckled, like nothing has been wrong between us . "She's doing well. A perfect wife. You've raised her well."
I risked a glance at my father, and the look he gave me chills my blood. He knew something. I was sure of it now.
After dinner the minister stood up to take a call and left for his room leaving i and my father alone
I feared for what was to come
"Come here," he ordered, his voice low and commanding.
I hesitated, but the sharp look in his eyes made me obey. I sat down beside him on the leather sofa, my hands clasped tightly in my lap.
"Is there something you want to tell me, Zeynep?" he asked, his tone deceptively calm.
"No, Baba," I replied quickly, my heart hammering in my chest.
He leaned closer, his breath hot against my cheek. "Don't lie to me. Do you think I don't hear things? Do you think I don't know what's been happening in this house?"
I froze, my blood turning cold.
"Baba, I—"
"Silence!" he barked, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. I flinched, my heart sinking.
"I sent you here to bring honor to our family," he hissed, his voice low and venomous. "And this is how you repay me? By spreading your legs for the minister's son?"
The words hit me like a physical blow. "No! Baba, it's not true—"
Before I could finish, his hand cracked across my face. The impact was jarring, my head snapping to the side as a sharp, burning pain radiated through my cheek.
"Don't you dare lie to me!" he roared, grabbing my arm and yanking me closer. His fingers dug into my flesh, bruising, suffocating. "Do you know what people are saying about you? That you're nothing but a harlot, a disgrace to our name!"
Tears streamed down my face as I shook my head vehemently. "Ibrahim—he forced me—he—"
His other hand lashed out, slapping me again, harder this time. My head spun, and I tasted blood in my mouth.
"Enough!" he shouted, his voice a thunderclap in the silent room. "You will not tarnish this family's name with your filthy lies. Do you hear me?"
"Please, Baba," I whimpered, my voice broken. "I'm telling the truth—"
He stood abruptly, dragging me to my feet by my arm. The strength in his grip made me cry out, but he didn't loosen it. Instead, he shoved me against the wall, his face inches from mine.
"You think you can deceive me?" he snarled, his spit spraying my face. "You think your tears will save you?"
"I didn't do anything wrong," I sobbed, my voice trembling.
He stepped back, his chest heaving, and for a moment I thought he might stop. But then he unbuckled his belt.
"Turn around," he ordered, his voice cold and detached.
"Baba, please," I begged, sinking to my knees.
"Turn around!" he thundered, his voice echoing off the walls.
I obeyed, my body trembling uncontrollably. The first hit of the belt across my back sent a white-hot pain coursing through me. I screamed, clutching the wall for support as he lashed me again and again.
"You will learn," he growled between strikes, his voice low and filled with fury. "You will learn to respect this family. You will learn to obey your husband."
The beating felt endless, each blow stripping away a piece of me. By the time he stopped, my legs I didn't know how long I sat there, my tears drying on my cheeks, my mind spiraling into despair. But one thing was clear: if I didn't find a way out of this nightmare, it wouldn't just be Ibrahim or the minister I had to fear.
It would be my own father.
I had given out, and I was crumpled on the floor, sobbing into the cold marble.
When he finally walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, I stayed where I was, too weak and too broken to move. My body throbbed with pain, my back a searing tapestry of welts and bruises.
I didn't know how long I lay there, staring blankly at the floor. The house was silent now, the shadows in the room stretching long and ominous.
He was gone. For now. But the weight of his words, his threats, lingered, pressing down on me like an unbearable burden.
"You will obey your husband."
The words played over and over in my mind, a cruel reminder of the chains I was bound by. My father's wrath, the minister's indifference and abuse, Ibrahim's rape—they all converged, leaving me with no escape.
As the night deepened, I curled up on the cold floor, clutching my knees to my chest. My tears had dried, but the pain—physical and emotional—was a constant, gnawing ache.
I realized then that I was truly alone. No one would save me. Not the minister, not Madam Maria, and certainly not my father.
If I wanted to survive, I would have to save myself.
But how.