“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

I appealed to his conscience, trying to remind him of my mother’s kindness during her life, how she had always supported him in difficult times, and how she always gave us part of her modest pension to help us out. But my words only served to unleash his anger. His face turned red. The pressure of his hand on my arm intensified to the point where I felt my bones might break. There on the porch of our house, he yelled at me in a voice so loud the neighbors could have heard. The words that came out of his mouth were like daggers digging into my open wound. He screamed that my mother was already dead, that there was no use in continuing to cry.