I lied reflexively, years of practice in masking bruises and pain guiding my words. “I slipped,” I stammered. “Socks on tile. I’m clumsy.”
The lie didn’t survive the door swinging open. My father, David, stood there—a man in worn denim with a quiet strength that demanded attention. His eyes took in the bruises, the IV, the way I couldn’t meet his gaze. He pulled a metal chair to my bedside, the screech of its legs on linoleum punctuating the silence, and sat.
“Tell me everything,” he said, not as a question but as a command to stop hiding the truth. When I repeated the story of slipping, he gently tipped my chin up. “Lauren, I read the intake notes. That bruising isn’t from a fall. That’s a hand. How long has he been hurting you?”
The dam broke. Years of hidden shouts, broken objects, shoves turning into slaps, and flowers left after the bruises poured out. My father exhaled, a long, trembling breath, his eyes glistening with quiet rage. When the doctor confirmed a placental abruption from blunt force trauma and the need to report it to authorities, my father nodded. “Do it,” he said.
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