My husband pushed me down the stairs, and as I lay shattered at the bottom, my mother-in-law called my father and said, “Come get your worthless daughter and take her back.” Dad gave her only one warning: “If she has so much as a scratch, your family will answer for it.” They laughed at him because they had absolutely no idea who my father truly was.

I read the letter twice.

Not once did it say she was sorry for the accusations, the messages, or the attempt to portray my injuries as evidence that I was unstable.

The words were polished and empty, like the glass bowls she used to arrange on her dining table.

I showed it to Gabriel, who by then was helping only with occasional legal questions.

He read it without expression.

“You can decide whether to respond,” he said.