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 want your words, not anyone else’s summary.”

Gabriel offered to wait outside.

I asked him to remain.

Detective Ortiz explained that her questions might feel repetitive, and that I could request breaks whenever I needed them.

I told the story again.

It was harder the second time.

The details that had seemed clean and simple when spoken to Gabriel became slippery.

Had Martin pushed me with one hand or two?