I woke up in a hospital bed with pain blooming in places I couldn’t name.
Monitors beeped. Lights hummed. Nurses moved with calm urgency.
I thought the worst part was the accident.
Then my husband arrived.
Not worried.
Not relieved.
Furious.
“Enough with the theatrics!” he shouted, loud enough for the hallway to hear.
“Get out of that bed. I’m not wasting my money on this!”
Before I could even sit up, he grabbed my arm and yanked.
When I fought back—weak, terrified, trapped—he raised both fists and slammed them into my stomach.
I didn’t just feel pain.
I felt my world tilt.
Because in that moment, I realized this wasn’t anger.
This was intent.
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