My six-year-old son burst into the supermarket where I worked, three miles from home, in tears, and gasping he shouted, “Mom, we have to go home right now… Dad…”

On the way, the boy was trembling and, staring at a single point, told me that his father had ordered him to hide and not open the door under any circumstances, but that he had escaped through the window.

Those words echoed in my head as I turned at full speed onto our street.

Outside the house were police cars with flashing lights, yellow tape, and uniformed officers.

My throat went dry. “Where is my husband?”

😨 The officer hesitated, then said something that left me frozen.

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A second stretched out unbearably long. I saw the officer look away, as if searching for the right words, and that silence frightened me more than any answer.

— Your husband is alive, he finally said, but he is receiving medical attention right now. We need to ask you a few questions.

My legs went weak. I grabbed the car door so I wouldn’t fall, and my son clung to me, as if he sensed that the worst was still to come.

— Who was that man? I whispered. — Why did he come?

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