Even the taxi driver from the night of the storm took the stand, recalling my bleeding feet and the way I kept checking the rear window for headlights.

“She didn’t ask me to call any friends or doctors,” he told the jury. “She just kept begging me to drive faster, so she could reach her father before her husband found her.”

My father was the final witness. He spoke of no revenge. He described the trust deposits, our weekly calls, and the small changes he’d noticed over the years — shorter video calls, long sleeves in summer, endless excuses for never leaving the house.

He admitted he had believed my reassurances for too long, because I always put on a bright smile.

“The military trained me to spot threats from the outside,” he told the jury, his voice steady in the silent room. “I never imagined my own daughter was fighting a silent war inside her own home.”

I sat at the prosecution table and wiped away quiet tears.