“You don’t understand.
We already gave notice on our apartment.
Trevor told his company we were moving.
Everyone knows.”
There it was.
Not regret for what she had done to me.
Not horror at seeing me injured.
Embarrassment.
She had built a public story about the life she was about to have, and my refusal threatened to expose it as a lie.
“Why my name?” I asked.
Nadia wiped her face.
“Your credit score was high enough.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the answer before she gave it.
Because she believed my life mattered less.
I had no husband.
No children.
No house.
In her mind, I had accumulated resources without earning the right to protect them.
My savings were spare money.
My credit was unused space.
My future was an empty room she could claim because she had arrived with a family and a louder need.
“You could have helped us,” she said.
My mother lowered her hands from her face.
“She could have,” she said quietly.
“But she was not required to.”
Nadia stared at her.
My mother’s voice trembled, but she continued.
“And when she said no, you brought her into our home and let your husband hurt her.”
“Mom, I didn’t know he was going to—”
“You told her to sign while she was on the floor.”
Nadia’s mouth closed.
The camera had taken away the shelter of selective memory.
Officer Ramirez asked Nadia to step outside.
She refused at first, demanding a lawyer and accusing my parents of turning against her.
When another officer appeared, she finally followed.
The hallway swallowed her voice.
For the first time since waking up, I was alone with my parents.
My mother moved toward the bed, but stopped before touching me.
“I am so sorry,” she said.
I believed that she was sorry.
I also knew sorry was not the same as safe.
“Why didn’t you help me?” I asked.
The question broke whatever composure she had left.
She sank into the chair and cried openly.
My father stood beside her, his face gray.
“I froze,” she said.
“I kept thinking he would stop.
I kept thinking your father would move, or Nadia would stop him, or you would get away.”
“You watched her smile.”
My mother nodded, tears falling onto her hands.
“Yes.”
My father walked to the window.
“I was afraid I would make it worse,” he said.
My ribs hurt when I breathed.
