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.

Sit quietly when you cry.

Pay for a lawyer if you want me to.

Tell you the truth even when the truth is that we have to wait.”

He sat beside me, knees cracking as he lowered himself.

I remembered him helping me build school projects at this same table, never taking over when the glue went wrong.

“I wish I’d told you Martin was getting worse,” I said.

“Would you have felt safe telling me?”