“Come get your worthless daughter and take her back,” my mother-in-law shouted my father as I lay broken at the bottom of the stairs after my husband shoved me down. “Your family will answer for it if she has even a scratch,” was the sole warning Dad offered her. They had no notion who my father really was, so they made fun of him.

The same old question felt like a punch to the gut.

I saw our two-story house, the dark wood stairs, the wedding picture framed in the hall, my husband’s shoes by the door.

That house didn’t seem like home anymore.

It felt like a murder scene.

I don’t feel safe there,” I said, honestly.

The nurse nodded understandingly.

“We’ll make sure the discharge papers have a safe alternative address on them.”

When the nurse stepped out of the room, Dad lightly placed his hand on my folder.