The assumption had been simpler and colder: that my comfort was irrelevant, because they had a reliable method for overriding it.

They did not need me to agree.

They needed only to push until agreeing became less exhausting than resisting — until my grief and my pregnancy and my sheer depletion made surrender the path of least resistance.

My yes had never been consent.

It had been collapse, and they had learned, over many years, exactly how much weight it took to produce it.

“You never actually thought I was okay with giving up my room,” I said softly.