My husband was in the hospital, so I visited him with our 5-year-old daughter. As he slept, my daughter whispered to me, “Mom… do you know what’s really on dad’s back?” Confused, I asked, “What do you mean?” Without a word, she lifted the sheet off his back. And in that instant, I couldn’t breathe. Every drop of blood drained from my face.

Chloe didn’t answer. She simply climbed onto the chair, reached toward the blanket, and before I could stop her, she lifted it just enough to expose the back of his hospital gown. Mark was lying on his side, the gown slightly pushed up.

What I saw did not immediately register. My brain needed a moment to interpret the jagged, healed-over patterns across his skin—patterns too deliberate to be accidental. Long scars, uneven but unmistakably intentional, cut across his back like someone had carved warnings into him. My mouth went dry. The room spun. Chloe stepped closer to me.
“Dad told me not to say anything,” she murmured. “But he hurts, Mommy.”

I pulled the blanket down just as Mark shifted in his sleep, letting out a low groan. I sat back in my chair, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

For weeks he had been coming home late. He always brushed off my questions with tired smiles, saying work was busy, that the factory had started a new contract. I believed him because Mark wasn’t the kind of man who lied. Or at least, I thought he wasn’t.

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