I turned to Megan.

“Why?” My voice broke.

“He said she was spoiled… that I was weak,” she whispered through her sobs.

“She’s a child. Our child. And you let him destroy her.”

I didn’t stay that night. Sophie slept curled up against me in the barracks, her tiny hand clutching my sleeve. I promised her she’d never have to be afraid again.

Two days later, I was sitting in a lawyer’s office.

The medic had documented everything—malnourishment, dehydration, bites, bruises. Abuse. Neglect. We built the case fast.

In court, Megan wept, claiming she’d been manipulated, while her lawyer tried to paint me as an absentee father. The words stung, but I stayed steady. My service had been for them—for her, for Sophie.

Then Sophie spoke. Her voice trembled, but her words carried the weight of truth:

“He put me in the garage. Mommy let him.”