After my accident, I asked my husband to pick me up. He replied, ‘I’m at lunch with a friend, I can’t leave.’ I said, ‘Alright.’ Moments later, a police officer approached his table and delivered news that left him stunned.

The text message arrived while I was still bleeding.

Can’t leave lunch with Charlotte right now. Her ex is stalking her. Call an Uber. Sorry, babe.

I gazed at my husband’s words through the spiderwebbed screen of my phone, my dislocated shoulder screaming with every shallow breath. With my one good hand, I typed back a single word: Okay.