Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would lose consciousness and wake up with unexplained aches and pains. My husband would only laugh and say, “You’re just out of shape, that’s all.” After the fourth ride, I secretly slipped a voice recorder into my purse and said nothing. That night, I listened to a phone conversation between the two of them that revealed my blackouts had never been accidental.

I listened to other people describe how control can arrive disguised as care: someone managing the accounts, deciding which doctors are trustworthy, insisting that questions are symptoms of instability.

I did not recognize every experience, but I recognized the language.

Afterward, a woman beside me said she had spent months wondering whether she was overreacting to things that did not add up.

I did not ask what happened to her.

I simply said, “You deserve to ask questions and to be safe.”

On the drive home, Priya asked whether I regretted going.

I thought about it for a moment.