Diane held my hand across the table.
Thomas called Emily’s father, my ex-husband Greg, who lived two states away and answered on the first ring.
“Is she okay?” Greg asked.
“No,” Thomas said. “But she’s safe.”
“I’m getting in the car.”
“Good.”
When Angela finally emerged, Emily looked smaller. Exhausted. But her shoulders were straighter.
“She’s ready for the medical exam,” Angela said. “It’s going to be hard. She’s going to need you close.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
They took us to the hospital.
The same hospital where Emily had once planned to work.
The nurses were kind. The doctor was efficient. They took pictures of every bruise, every cut, every mark that told the story Emily’s voice couldn’t.
I stayed in the room the whole time.
I held her hand when she cried.
I looked away when she needed privacy.
I looked back when she needed to know I was still there.
When it was over, the doctor handed Emily a folder full of resources. Hotlines. Shelters. Therapists. Support groups.
“You’re going to need help,” the doctor said gently. “This kind of trauma doesn’t just go away.”
“I know,” Emily said.
“Do you have somewhere safe to stay?”
Emily looked at me.
“She’s staying with me,” I said.
“For how long?”
“As long as she needs.”
The doctor nodded. “Good.”
We left the hospital just after midnight.
The air outside was cool and clean, and Emily stood on the curb for a long moment, just breathing.
“I can’t go back to the apartment,” she said.
“We’ll get your things tomorrow.”
“He has keys.”
