He stops me with one hand on my arm and angles his cheek up to me. I oblige him with a kiss, and he says, “I’ll see you for dinner.” The underlying threat of what will happen if I’m late hangs heavy between us. Dinner is to be served promptly at six from an approved menu. The lack of autonomy doesn’t matter. I’ve long since lost the ability to enjoy the food I eat, and it’s but one of the aspects of my life he controls.
