Hannah survived, but only barely. She was rushed to the specialized care unit with tubes thinner than shoelaces taped to her tiny face. I lost far too much blood, and my blood pressure crashed twice.

For sixteen hours, the doctors watched me like a candle they weren’t sure would keep burning.

My sister, Wendy, arrived before dawn after seeing all my missed calls. She found my empty house, the broken glass still scattered across the kitchen floor, and a smear of blood near the hallway.

She was the one who came to the hospital. She was the one who signed forms when I could hardly grip a pen. She was the one who stood beside the small incubator and cried quietly, whispering that Hannah was loved, even if her father was a coward.

On the second morning, I woke to Wendy sitting beside my bed with my phone in her hand. Her face was pale with fury.

“Sienna, you need to see this,” she said. “Cameron posted pictures.”