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.

For a few minutes I lay still, aware of a faint ache where my ribs had healed and of the quiet house around me.

I remembered the triage bay and the fear that had swallowed every other thought.

Then I heard Lily turn over in the next room.

The floor creaked gently.

Rain tapped against the window.

I got up and made coffee.

Dad arrived at eight carrying strawberries and a newspaper he had already read.

He looked around the kitchen as if conducting an inspection, then pronounced it a respectable establishment despite the stack of school papers by the toaster.