After that, the morning broke into pieces: the porch rail under my fingers, the rope tightening, my husband’s breath, his mother’s voice telling him not to leave marks where a doctor would notice.
My knees gave out.
The pillar kept me from falling all the way.
My husband cursed because my weight pulled against the knot.
He loosened it, grabbed me beneath the arms, and dragged me through the back door.
My dress gathered dirt from the threshold.
My mother-in-law followed us inside, still complaining.
“She does this for attention,” she said.
He dropped me onto the bed.
Pain moved through my abdomen in waves that did not feel like anything I had experienced before.
I told him something was wrong.
He told me to stop being dramatic.
I told him again.
His mother stood in the doorway and said a hospital would ask questions.
That was the first moment I saw fear in either of them.
It was not fear for me.
It was fear of being seen.
My husband paced between the bed and the kitchen.
He wanted to wait.
His mother wanted to create a story first.
They agreed I had fallen in the backyard while hanging laundry, even though we did not have a clothesline.
They argued about the detail until I cried out again.
Only then did my husband reach for his keys.
While they were in the kitchen, I pushed my hand into the pillowcase.
The phone was still there.
The recording timer glowed red through the cracked screen.
