He did not raise his voice. Somehow that made him more frightening.
“Not another word until my daughter has been examined.”
The officers separated Ryan and Linda into the living room. Their voices drifted through the open door, sharp at first, then quieter when they realized no one was accepting easy explanations anymore.
Mara pulled the chair closer to the bed. “Emily, I’m going to ask you some questions. You only answer what you can.”
I stared at her hands as she took my pulse. They were warm, careful, ordinary hands. I had forgotten ordinary kindness could feel so startling.
“How far along are you?”
“Twenty-nine weeks,” I whispered.
“Any pain today?”
I hesitated.
Dad noticed.
“Sweetheart,” he said, kneeling beside me, “you don’t have to protect anyone here.”
The words loosened something inside me. I looked at him, at the face that had taught me how to ride a bike, change a tire, stand straight when life felt heavy. For months, shame had convinced me silence was easier than truth.
