At 2 a.m., my sister banged on my door—terrified, with a broken rib—begging for help before collapsing in my arms.

I looked down at Sarah, shivering on my floor, struggling to breathe through the pain. “What happened?” I asked.

She grabbed my wrist with surprising force. “Don’t answer Mom. Don’t tell her I’m here.”

That frightened me more than the blood on her mouth.

I helped Sarah onto the couch and wrapped her in two blankets. Every movement made her flinch. I brought ice, water, and my old first-aid kit, though it felt useless against the way her body curled inward like it had learned pain too well. She kept glancing toward the window, jumping at every set of headlights that passed.

“Was it Mark?” I asked quietly.

Her husband.

She closed her eyes.

That was all the answer I needed.

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