My father-in-law served me soup every Saturday, and I would wake up three hours later with my blouse buttoned wrong. My husband always said, “Your blood pressure dropped,” until I recorded seven forbidden seconds.

He signed the papers without arguing further. Before I left, he looked up at me one last time.

“I thought that as long as I didn’t touch you directly, I could still say that I wasn’t like them,” he whispered.

I stopped at the doorway. “That was your fatal mistake, because you thought that watching in silence didn’t count,” I said before closing the door on him forever.

I never visited him again. The trial began months later, and by then, my name was part of a permanent national record.

Some people called me brave, while others said I overreacted and should have handled it privately. It is curious how there is always someone willing to silence the victim just to protect the reputation of the powerful.

My parents accompanied me to every single court hearing. My mother always carried a rosary, and my father didn’t talk much, but he held my hand whenever I trembled.