He hit me every day over the tiniest things. burnt toast, a late reply, a wrong look, You made me do this, he did hiss, One night, panic swallowed me whole and I collapsed, At the hospital, he said to them, She slipped in the shower

His hands were shaking.

For the first time, something shifted. Not for me—but for him.

He recovered quickly, smoothing his jacket and slipping back into confidence. “My wife is fragile,” he said. “She has anxiety. She panics.”

Dr. Harris nodded once, then looked at me. “Emily,” he said gently, “I need to ask you something. And I need you to answer honestly.”

My heart thundered. Jason’s hand rested on my knee—light but deliberate.

“Tell him,” he murmured. “You slipped.”

For years, fear had made my choices. Fear of speaking. Fear of silence. Fear of what came after either option. But something in that room—maybe the IV in my arm, maybe the certainty in the doctor’s voice—gave me a clarity I hadn’t felt before.

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