Outside the curtain, my father’s whispering stopped.
Angela Moore didn’t react.
She kept her eyes on me, pen resting above the page inside her folder.
“Take your time,” she said.
I stared at the white hospital blanket covering my legs.
The first injury I told her about was one my parents had always called an accident.
I had been younger then.
Brittany and I had argued, she had lost her temper, and afterward my arm hurt so badly I couldn’t use it normally.
My parents never told anyone what had actually happened.
By the time the injury healed, the story had been repeated so many times that even I had learned to say it automatically whenever someone asked.
I fell.
I was clumsy.
It was nothing.
Angela wrote quietly.
“Was Brittany responsible for that injury?”
My heart pounded.
“Yes.”
The word came out barely above a whisper.
Nothing exploded.
No one shouted at me.
No one told me I was destroying the family.
So I said another thing.
Then another.
I told her about the arguments that turned physical.
I told her how quickly Brittany could go from irritated to furious and how my parents always appeared afterward with explanations instead of consequences.
Sometimes Mom would bring me ice wrapped in a dish towel.
Sometimes Dad would tell Brittany to calm down.
But later, when the immediate fear had passed, the conversation always became about me.
Why had I provoked her?
Why couldn’t I just walk away?
Why did I insist on making things bigger than they needed to be?
And above all, why would I ever tell outsiders about something that belonged inside the family?
Angela asked simple questions.
When did this happen?
Who was present?
Did anyone see the injury afterward?
Did I receive medical treatment?
Had I ever been afraid to go home?
I answered until my mouth went dry.
The strange part was that some incidents were difficult to remember until she asked about a specific scar or injury.
Then whole pieces of my life came back with frightening clarity.
A hallway.
A slammed door.
My mother’s frightened face.
My father’s warning voice telling everyone to keep quiet.
Brittany crying afterward and saying she hadn’t meant it.
Then the next week, or the next month, it would happen again.
Angela never called me dramatic.
She never asked what I had done to deserve it.
When I finished describing another incident, she closed her folder for a moment.
“Emily, I’m going to tell you something important.
What happens next is not your responsibility to manage for the adults outside this curtain.
My job right now is to understand whether you’re safe.”
Safe.
The word sounded almost unfamiliar.
A few minutes later, Detective Claire Nolan entered.
She pulled up a second chair.
“Dr.
Grant explained what she found,” she said.
“I need to ask you some questions too.”
I nodded.
She asked whether Brittany had injured me that afternoon.
“Yes.”
“Has she hurt you before?”
“Yes.”
“Did your parents know?”
That question hurt more than the others.
I looked toward the curtain.
“Yes.”
Detective Nolan’s expression barely changed, but Angela’s pen stopped for half a second.
“What would they do afterward?” Nolan asked.
I told them.
They separated us temporarily.
They comforted Brittany.
They treated whatever bruises or
