By morning, I understood that hope alone would not protect my daughter or give me the truth I needed. I knew I had to find out what was really happening, no matter how much it terrified me.
The next evening, when he took Emily upstairs for their usual bath, I waited quietly in the hallway without making a sound. I stood there barefoot, my heart pounding so loudly that I thought it might give me away even through the walls.
The bathroom door was not fully closed, because it was slightly open just enough for me to see inside. I moved closer and looked through the gap, and in that moment everything inside me shattered completely.
I did not scream or confront him, because I knew I needed to act carefully and quickly to protect her. I stepped back, grabbed my phone, took Emily’s bag from her room, and ran out to the car as fast as I could.
With shaking hands, I called emergency services and forced the words out through my fear. I said, “My husband is hurting my daughter, please send help,” and every second felt like it stretched into eternity while I waited.