“She’s beautiful,” I whispered.
Daniel was crying openly now, tears slipping under the edge of his mask. “She’s beautiful,” he repeated.
We named her Lily.
The first twenty-four hours after her birth passed in fragments: pain medication, nurses checking my incision, phone calls I refused to answer, Daniel sleeping in a chair with his head bent awkwardly against the wall, and trips to the NICU where I saw my daughter under soft lights and monitored wires, so small it physically hurt to look at her.
Every time I touched her hand and felt her curl her fingers around one of mine, I thought about the hardwood floor.
Every time a machine beeped, I remembered my father’s boot hitting the back of my chair.
Rage settled into me with a clarity I had never felt before.
Not just because of what they had done.
Because of how easy it had been for them.
Because some part of them had believed they were entitled to it.
On the second day, the detective assigned to the case came to my hospital room.
She was a calm woman in her forties named Detective Marisol Vega, with sharp eyes and a voice that suggested she had heard every variation of family denial there was. She asked if I felt up to talking. I did.
Daniel stayed beside me, but he let me answer.
I told her exactly what happened. No dramatics. No embellishment. I didn’t need either; the truth was enough.
She listened without interrupting, then opened a folder.
“We have video,” she said. “Multiple angles.”
My throat tightened.
“Your father clearly approaches from behind and kicks the chair with significant force. Your mother can be heard telling you to get up immediately before that. After the fall, both your mother and sister make statements denying contact despite witnesses and footage. Based on the evidence and the injuries involved, the district attorney is reviewing charges.”
I swallowed. “What charges?”
“Aggravated assault on a pregnant person, among others.”
The words sat in the room like iron.
