Ethan bent close to my ear.
“If you say one word,” he whispered, “you’ll never see your daughters again.”
That was the cruelest blow.
Not to my body.
To my soul.
Karen saw the change in my face.
“Sir, you need to step outside.”
“She’s my wife.”
“She’s a patient. Now leave.”
He glared at me—pure, quiet hatred—before muttering, “This isn’t over,” and walking out.
The moment the door shut, I broke.
Karen didn’t tell me to calm down. She handed me water and asked where my daughters were.
Panic surged again.
I had left them with Mrs. Jenkins next door before everything turned into shouting and pain. But Margaret was still at the house.
And she knew exactly how to control me.
Through my children.
“I—I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if they’re still there.”
Karen made calls. The nurse stepped into the hallway.
I waited, gripping the sheets, heart hammering.
Thirty minutes later, they confirmed the girls were safe.
Shaken. But safe.
Lily had drawn me a picture.
A small house. Three flowers.
One tall. Two smaller.
I shattered inside.
My six-year-old was already trying to comfort me.
That afternoon, I told them everything.
The beatings. The insults. The mornings in the yard. The nights my daughters clung to each other so they wouldn’t hear me cry.
