Thump, thump, thump.
I cried when I heard it.
Dad stood beside the bed, one hand pressed to his mouth. He looked older beneath the fluorescent lights. Older than he had that morning. Older than he had when Mom died.
“The baby’s heartbeat is strong,” the doctor said. “But you’re dehydrated, undernourished, and there are injuries we need to document carefully.”
The word document made everything real.
A social worker named Priya arrived after sunset. She had kind eyes and a clipboard she barely looked at. She asked where I felt safe going after discharge.
I looked at Dad.
He answered before I could. “Home with me.”
Priya nodded. “Is that what you want, Emily?”
The question was simple. Still, it felt enormous. For months, every decision had been taken from me, disguised as concern or convenience. What I ate. Who I called. Which appointments I attended. Whether I was too tired to leave the bed.
