Labor was long and hard. My body, worn out by the previous month, fought the whole process. But I refused to let that kitchen dictate my daughter’s arrival.

After twenty-two hours, she came.

She was loud, demanding, and perfect. Seven pounds four ounces of pure life. I named her Ivy, for the ability to climb and to thrive in difficult places.

I never set foot in the apartment Corey and I had shared again. My parents packed it for me and moved my things into my childhood bedroom. From the safety of my mother’s house I nursed my newborn and watched the courts work.

Lorraine, stripped of her domestic kingdom, took a plea to avoid jail — strict probation and a permanent restraining order barring her from within five hundred feet of Ivy or me.

Walter took his chances with a jury. That was harrowing. I had to take the stand and look at him while I described the sound my breath made leaving my body when his hand hit my stomach.