The air in the room grew tense, suffocating the laughter that had just filled it moments ago. My dad's perplexed expression mirrored the confusion in the room, as if he'd been slapped with a cold dose of reality. I stood there, a reluctant silence hanging heavy between us.
"Elena," he stammered, searching for words that could bridge the chasm of misunderstanding that had suddenly opened up.
I smiled as I stopped laughing and replied, "Yeah, he truly took care of me by hitting me and forcing me to sleep with him."
"What?" my dad asked, surprised.
"r****g has become a common thing for me. I'm used to it," I said cheerfully, just because, at that point, my emotions were not working truthfully. It was a facade, a well-practiced act I had mastered over time. Deep down, I wasn't feeling bad,
