I stared at him.
My father had never told me that.
Not once.
“Why would he do that without telling me?”
The detective’s voice softened.
“That’s something you’ll have to ask him when he’s able to speak.”
I looked through the window toward my daughter’s treatment room.
For months, I had believed my husband was simply strict. I had convinced myself that his obsession with grades was a personality flaw, that his anger was something we could manage, that his increasingly rigid rules were temporary.
I had made excuses because I wanted our daughter to grow up with both parents.
Now I wondered how many warning signs I had ignored.
And I wondered how much my father had seen that I hadn’t.
My daughter was in surgery for nearly two hours.
The doctors treated the severe injury to her foot, cleaned the wound, and worked to prevent infection. They told me she would need follow-up treatment and physical therapy, but they were cautiously optimistic about her recovery.