The hospital called—my seven-year-old had been rushed to the Emergency. I tore through the doors and found her barely conscious on the stretcher. “Mom, I’m sorry… Dad was in our bed with Aunt Serena. When they saw me, he shoved me down the stairs. They’re still there, drinking whiskey…” Instinct from my military years snapped into place. Nobody harms my child and walks away.

The emergency room nurse wouldn’t meet my eyes when she said my seven-year-old was in critical condition. She kept staring at her clipboard, her fingers white against the edges. I knew that look. I’d seen it in field hospitals in Kandahar when medics delivered news about soldiers who weren’t coming back whole.

“Mrs. Hawthorne, your daughter has significant injuries,” she said. “The doctor will explain everything, but you should prepare yourself.”