The Truth I Didn't Want to See
In the examining room, Dr. Hayes examined me thoroughly. When he touched a spot on my stomach, I cried out in pain.
"We have to check this," he said quietly.
He pulled up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. His jaw tightened. Bruises were visible on my arms—in various stages of healing.
"Where are they from?" he asked calmly.
"I'm clumsy," I replied automatically. "I bruise easily."
"Stacy," he said, looking into my eyes. "I saw your father kick you. That's assault."
Tears welled in my eyes.
"He was upset. I was disturbing others."
"That doesn't give him the right to hurt you."
Soon, the social worker, Patricia, entered the room. She listened intently as I recounted years of pushing, grabbing, and humiliation. About how Douglas had pushed me against the kitchen counter in July. Like he twisted my arm in August. Like I banged my shoulder against the doorframe in September.
"This is domestic violence," she said calmly. "And I have a duty to report it."
I wanted to beg her not to. I feared his anger. But before I could protest, the door opened.
"You have a ruptured ovarian cyst," Dr. Hayes told Douglas. "Surgery is necessary."
"Surgery?" he snorted. "Give her something for the pain and stop making things up."
When the doctor mentioned the assault, Douglas lost his composure.
"She's my daughter! I can discipline her however I want!"
"She's twenty-eight years old," Patricia interjected.
"I wish she had died instead of her mother," Douglas hissed.
The words hit me like a hammer blow.
Dr. Hayes pulled out his phone. He played the recording from the waiting room. His father's voice, his own words, filled the room. He paled.
"Security is on its way," Patricia said.
Douglas and Amber were escorted out.
I underwent surgery a few hours later. When I woke up, the doctor said something else.
"We found old scars. Internal. They indicate repeated trauma from years ago.
My body was storing a truth my mind refused to accept."
Shortly afterward, Detective Morgan entered the room.
"We have surveillance footage. It was an assault. But there's something else," she said.
She showed me a photo of a woman. Tired eyes. Similar to mine.
"This is Jennifer Wallace. She reported similar abuse three months ago. She's your half-sister."
I had a sister. And I wasn't the only victim.
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